


Aftershocks

by black_cigarette



Series: Aftershocks [7]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 93
Words: 114,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_cigarette/pseuds/black_cigarette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aftershocks 1.1: How Wilson Got Away</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftershocks 1.1: How Wilson Got Away

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Always going in the wrong direction for the right reasons. **  
CHARACTERS:** Wilson, one OFC, two OMC, and Oreo  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the orginal event in _Bad Company_ ; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**How Wilson Got Away**

_"Your fly's open, Doctor," he says, "and you can call me Mycroft."_

Grey Eyes' words are still racketing around in Wilson's head when he's heaved out of the limo and onto the cold concrete. They bounce and carom, shiny little pinballs along his neural pathways as he tries to make sense of them. The fact that he can do nothing to break his own fall doesn't help with his comprehension, and he hits the ground with a thud. The pain is excruciating; broken bones, bruised and lacerated flesh scream in agony, and for a moment Wilson thinks he's screaming too. Through the pain, he's dimly aware of the limo door slamming shut, and the purring roar as the big car pulls away. He can't be sure of that, though. Nothing's clear right now, except for a primal urge that's ringing desperate alarm bells in his mind.

_Trick or treat. Coming back for me,_ Wilson thinks through a bitter fog. _Something they'd do. Come back and hurt me some more._

He lays there for a moment, then slowly, gingerly raises himself on his forearms. He's not sure if it's a good or a bad thing that he doesn't pass out. A few feet away, his wallet lies splayed open, limp and empty like the skin of some small flayed animal.

_Get away,_ the primal urge whispers.

It's hard to think in a straight line; his thoughts are scattering like charms from a broken bracelet. Very carefully, he begins to crawl deeper into the alley, away from the street.

_Get away. Hide._

Every movement is agony; every breath causes his body to resonate with pain. The fractured ribs grind and scrape together, the broken collarbone makes it virtually impossible to put any weight at all on his left arm, and so he tilts awkwardly to the right like an unbalanced top. There's a terrible, dull ache deep in his gut letting him know he's probably bleeding to death internally, but he can't stop now. There's only one overriding concern, driving everything else into a blurry, humming sea of background noise.

_Get away._

Wilson continues crawling, inch by searing inch, deeper into the alley. His breath saws in and out of his throat in rasping gasps; occasionally a whimper escapes his battered lips but he tries to stay quiet. If he makes too much noise they might find him.

If they find him they'll take him back to the barn.

The gravelly concrete pokes hard little nubbins into his forearms and knees, but it's a tiny little hurt, lost amidst all the other big hurts and so he ignores it. His mouth is so horribly parched; he'd sell his soul right now for just one single sip of water.

_Has House already sold his?_

He shoves the thought away. He needs to keep going as long as he can. Already black dots are starting to trace little photo-negative comet trails across his line of sight; he's not going to get much farther.

_Just a little more_ —

He has to stop, he has to. His back is hurting so badly his legs feel numb and half-paralyzed, but he keeps going. He's aware on some level that he's dragging himself through garbage, through puddles of rainwater and oil slicks. Wilson hovers for a moment over one of the rain puddles and attempts to lap at the water, but he's in the wrong position and his broken jaw won't allow him to purse his lips to try drawing it up.

_So fucked,_ he thinks, and the words slide around his brain like so many loose buttons. _So, so fucked._ He puts his right elbow in a pile of what must be dog shit, but it translates to Wilson's brain as cow flop and lends new impetus to his tortured efforts.

_Shelter. Hide._

Wilson manages, after a halting, crab-like fashion, to crawl a few more feet. Then he really does have to stop, because even though he's flat on his belly, his cheek pressed into the rough, dirty tarmac, he's falling a long ways down into a sickening, swirling tunnel of darkness.

When he passes out, he's crept deep into the alley.

 

* * *

"Come on, Oreo," the young woman says wearily. "Do your business. Be a good boy."

Oreo doesn't want to do his business, though. The small black and white dog keeps looking around, scenting the air. His owner sighs; she shifts her aching feet and begins composing a mental grocery list as she waits. _Yogurt, bread, toilet paper should've changed my shoes after work carrots potatoes yogurt wait_ —

Her train of thought is derailed when Oreo suddenly lunges forward. "Hey!" she yelps, teetering on her heels, but the dog is straining at the leash, pulling her down the nearby alley. He doesn't stop until they're both at the blind end of the passageway.

She looks down in disgust at the man sprawled on the filthy pavement.

_Another homeless guy. Neighborhood's really going downhill._

There's something different about this one, though. His suit, even dirty and torn, is obviously of high quality, and his shoes are expensive and recently shined. Oreo is whining, licking at the man's ear. "Oreo, bad boy," his owner says automatically, and tries to tug the dog away. It's not until then that she gets a clear look at the homeless guy's face. "Oh my God," she whispers, and quickly backs away, dragging the dog with her. She fumbles for the cell phone in her pocket.

"911?" Her voice is high and thin, on the verge of hysteria. "I need to report—I need to report—oh, God, there's a guy, and _I think he's dead."_

 

* * *

Wilson is vaguely aware of a warm, wet tongue on his face. His brain tries to process this, and fails. Somewhere close by a woman is crying, shouting in a thin, hysterical voice.

_"_ — _and I think he's **dead!"**_ she screams, and Wilson attempts to wrap his mind around this new information.

_Who's_ —

And that's as far as he gets before slipping back into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

He swims back up to semi-awareness one more time when he feels people touching him.

There are hands on his arms and legs, turning him over, patting him down and straightening his limbs. Wilson screams, but all that comes out is a hissing moan; his ribs are so badly broken he can't draw a full breath.

He tries to get his hands and feet under him and skitter away, but they hold him down and that's even worse—they're going to beat him again, torture him to death while Grey Eyes watches. He'd said they'd only keep him for twenty-four hours but everybody lies.

In a last, desperate act he swings his right fist and catches one of his tormentors square on the nose.

_"Shit!"_ the man yells, backpedaling, and Wilson flinches, waiting for the expected punishment.

Instead of a savage blow, however, there's a different response—the cold pinprick of a needle sliding into his left forearm, where someone's pushed the sleeve up.

Then he's being lifted, and Wilson rises into the air and keeps going, flying, flying into a sky so twilight blue and welcoming, away from the hurt and the pain and the constant, aching terror. Soaring away from barns and horses and cows and those grey, grey eyes.

He could fly like this forever.

   


	2. Aftershocks 1.2: Incoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. Being new to this posting-huge-stories-on-AO3 thing, we put up a few chapters as "works in a series" and made navigation a bit difficult. The only fix is to delete and re-post them, which we're now doing so that we can then continue posting as planned.

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Preparation for a hurricane. **  
****CHARACTERS:** Chase, House **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the orginal event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Incoming**

" ** _What?!_** "

House has picked up on the first ring of his phone, which is not right, and neither is the storm of agitation and anger in that one word. He's already in a hell of a mood, and that's only going to make everything worse.

"Wilson," Chase answers, and that's all he seems able to say. He stands there twisting one foot on the tile floor, hoping for the arrival of better words than the ones he's got. They don't come. He doesn't know how he's going to tell House the rest of it.

"Start _talking_ , god _dammit!_ "

"Coming in to the ER," Chase blurts, raising his voice above the rumble and white noise that's coming over the phone. "He's on his way, and it's bad, but they think—they don't know yet."

He hears a distant _oh God_ , almost lost amidst the sounds of cars and a motorcycle as House's phone snaps shut. House is on the road. Chase is sure that he was already on the way to the hospital, already aware that something was badly wrong—who knows how. He's House; that's as much explanation as Chase needs.

Cuddy's down here waiting, pacing, a general in a pink skirt suit, hoping that she can do something to make their trauma team more efficient than it is. She can't, and that's a good thing. They're her hires and she chose them well. They need neither help nor supervision. Right now he imagines that she's just hoping Wilson will live, and not thinking too much about House. Chase isn't going to tell her what he knows:  In a few more minutes, House will make landfall like a hurricane. It might be best if Wilson gets here first and is in surgery before House ever sees him. Or it might be the worst possible thing. With House everything is a gamble.

Chase thinks he can hear the sirens even now, faintly.

He watches the doors, crowded with people waiting to meet Wilson's ambulance. To Chase, they're a group of competent, concerned professionals who can help. _House_ will see an obstacle course, a mob of idiots standing in his way. Chase knows all too well what can happen; he's been acquainted with House's potential for violence. He doesn't doubt for a moment that House is going to be trouble.  Regardless of the problems between them, Wilson's still House's friend—the only real friend House has—and there was that wild, frenetic current in House's voice on the phone.

House has been angry with Wilson, but that won't matter now. All House will remember is that someone tried to kill one of _his_ people, and not just _any_ one of his people. This is _not_ going to be a peaceful scene.

Chase picks up the phone again and punches in the code for security.  
 


	3. Aftershcks 1.3: Landfall

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Wilson arrives in the ER. So does House. **  
****CHARACTERS:** House, Cuddy, OMCs **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the orginal event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Landfall**

****  
House barely gets the kickstand under the bike before he's off and heading for the ER doors. Cuddy is waiting to intercept him just inside, her hands fisted, her face reflecting the agitation of the trauma team assembled behind her.  
  
"Where is he?" House shouts as soon as the doors begin to slide open.  
  
"Not here yet," Cuddy replies and moves in front of him, trying to stop him in his tracks. "We need to keep the doors clear."  
  
"I'm not the one doing the blocking," he grumbles and sidesteps around her.  
  
She surprises him by grabbing his elbow and pulling insistently. " _You_ need to stay out of the way."  
  
They can hear the sirens approaching the hospital and House tries to peel away from her grasp. "Like _hell_ I will," he growls. "What happened?"  
  
"They think he was mugged and beaten. He was found in an alley." Even tottering on her heels, a determined Cuddy is a physical force to contend with, and he barely registers another set of hands on his shoulders, pulling him backwards, away from the doors and toward the admit desk.  
  
"Where?" he shouts. He'd use his cane to beat his way past Cuddy and whoever else, if he didn't need to lean on it so badly.  
  
"Close," she replies in a huff. He struggles, wonders why he's not making forward progress.  
  
Cuddy is trying to keep his attention; House is trying to look everywhere but at her. "House, you have to let the trauma team do their job. They've been talking to the EMTs, they know his condition; I've got the best people on this." His cane arm wobbles and he gives her another shake, but she doesn't let go. "House, we need to stay here."  
  
The sirens wail their last gasp right outside the doors, and House spots Chase among the people heading toward them. He stills, just enough that Cuddy stops pulling and simply holds onto his arm as he stands taut and tense. She nods behind them, and the hands on his shoulders drop away.  
  
His height allows him an excellent view of the team transferring Wilson from the ambulance into the hospital. He manages to catch most of what the EMTs shout to the ER team: _left hand is crushed; multiple rib fractures; he's in shock; fractured clavicle, left side; abdomen is rigid, internal bleeding; concussion likely; fractured mandible, we had to trach him_.  
  
Wilson is nearly naked on the gurney; House catches only glimpses, but every patch of skin he sees is a shade of red or purple. The man isn't recognizable as Wilson—only the hair indicates that the bloody, dark purple pulp could possibly be Wilson's face. The trach tube bobs in his throat, in time with the compressions from the ambu bag a nurse is holding.  
  
The last thing he hears as the ER doors close behind them is Chase's voice, shouting for someone to check the status of the OR. Cuddy slips away, following the chaos.  
  
House can't follow, no matter how much he wants to.  
  
The seconds he's standing there, watching through the ER doors, watching the tornado surrounding Wilson, feel like hours. He tries to remember the last thing Wilson said to him, the last thing he said to Wilson. Before.  
  
But the only things he can remember are muffled grunts and low moaning, followed by a snarled _"Fucking Jew!"_ and a cry of pain. It plays on repeat, and only gets paused when his attention is caught by a new commotion from outside.  
  
". . . get decked by a mostly-dead guy, Mike," a stocky EMT is saying as he leads a taller, skinnier EMT through the door.  
  
"I think it's broken," Mike whines from behind a wad of bloody gauze.  
  
"Well, I was _trying_ to hold him down," Stocky EMT replies with a chuckle. "At least you can brag you got hit by a _department head_."  
  
"Great," Skinny EMT whines again. "It's going to be _forever_ before somebody looks at my nose." He yelps as his feet are swept from underneath him.  
  
House really wants to use his cane to beat some _respect_ into the man, but it stays tangled in the skinny guy's feet, so he settles for the next best thing. He falls forward, letting the EMT cushion his fall, landing hard with his elbows against the guy's ribs. He doesn't feel his knees hit the floor; the scream from his thigh is lost in the rush of blood pounding in his ears.  
  
He wraps his fingers around the neck in front of him and growls angrily, "He's got a fucking _tube in his throat_ and you're whining about a broken nose? Were you so worried about your precious _nose_ that you ignored your _patient_?" House squeezes and shoves the man back against the floor, heedless of the hands tugging at his shoulders and the shouts from above him. "You know, the patient who doesn't have a face anymore?" He gets in one more good shove, with a satisfying _thunk_ as the EMT's head hits the floor, before a second set of big hands wraps around his elbows and pulls him back.  
  
"Now you've been decked by _two_ department heads," House shouts as he's dragged off. He's quickly pinned to the floor; suddenly he's gone, feeling not the security guards' hands and knees but a heavy boot. A boot is on his chest and his knees are tangled, held together and down. He thrashes, arching his back and rolling his head.  
  
"Don't touch me, you son of a bitch!" He's roaring now, and he's so much louder than he was back then, bigger and meaner and so much more menacing, but he still can't get up, he can never get up. "Let him go, he didn't _do_ anything! Leave us alone! I don't _want_ this, let me up you fucking bastard!"  
  
Three sets of hands haul him to his feet; his right leg doesn't cooperate and turns under at the ankle. House tries to lunge forward anyway, but he's stopped by the hands on his shoulders and one small, cool hand on his chest. He tries to kick out, but his right leg isn't cooperating and his left is too busy holding his weight. He struggles, trying to use the weight in his shoulders to break his arms free, but he's held fast by bodies far thicker than his.  
  
Cuddy's voice is sharp, penetrating; it cuts through the fog and carries over the rabid, unintelligible yelling that House can't place.  Slowly he manages to focus on her face, on the fact that she's shouting at him to calm down. A little voice ( _that sounds too much like Wilson_ ) in the back of his mind says that shouting is really not the way to calm someone down. Eventually he realizes the rabid yelling is coming from him and he forces himself to stop.  
  
Cuddy rests her cool hands on his cheeks, watches closely as he pulls himself back together.  
  
He shakes his head and her hands drop away. House draws in a shuddering breath, lets more of his body weight fall into the hands holding him up. "Okay," he says loudly. He hangs his head and spreads his fingers wide, surrendering, and says more quietly, "Okay."  
  
"Okay," Cuddy replies and sighs. "House, I know how you feel."  
  
He keeps his gaze firmly on her stylish, tiny shoes. She can't possibly know; he can't bring himself to tell her how little she knows, not this time.  
  
"But I can't let you stay here, not after this."  
  
He looks up sharply; she wouldn't ask him to go _home_.  
  
Her eyes are big, round, and entirely too pitying, but House decides he'll take it if she'll let him stay. "If you want to stay in the hospital, you're going to do it in your office."  
  
He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Okay," he says quietly. "Give me my cane and I'll go to my office."  
  
Cuddy crosses her arms in front of her and shakes her head. "Oh, no. I'm not handing you a weapon. You can go in a wheelchair or you can be carried," she tilts her head at the men holding House up, "but you'll go to your office and _you will stay there_. I'm posting security outside your door."  
  
House gives her a look. He hopes it's venomous, but right now all he can really muster is probably pitiful.  
  
"The choice is yours, House. If you want to stay, it's them or this." She waves an orderly over with a wheelchair. The rest of the ER is clear, emptied of everyone but two nurses at the desk. Skinny EMT got to see his doctor after all.  
  
He looks back at the floor and finally nods his head, once. He points with his right hand at the wheelchair, and the security guys dump him carelessly into it. He doesn't move once he lands, either; he lets himself slump over and stare at the floor. He stays silent as security flanks the wheelchair on the way to the elevators. He watches the tiles under his feet; his leg is screaming and he's hungry and crashing off a high of adrenaline and terror and he's _so tired_ but he won't sleep. He won't sleep until he gets his cane back. He won't sleep until Wilson's out of surgery.  
 

   


	4. Aftershocks 1.4: Harbinger

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** How Chase brought the good news. **  
****CHARACTERS:** Chase, House **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the orginal event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Harbinger**

_Of course,_ House thinks, resting his forehead against the top of his cane, _of course they'd dump him only a mile away from the hospital. He might as well have left Wilson on my front doorstep; Martin always did have a flair for the fucking dramatic._

He'd hardly recognized Wilson in the ER. Wilson's face was so battered, so torn apart, the rest of his body limp and broken. They'd rushed him into emergency surgery, and House had watched them go. It had been Chase who'd followed the gurney upstairs, and that was wrong, but House hadn't been able to make himself move.

Not until some rail-thin EMT, who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now House sits in his office, his leg aching, staring at the floor and gripping his cane. An orderly had brought it by, a few minutes after House had been deposited in his office like an ill-trained dog who'd bitten a dinner guest. The security guards stationed on either side of his door had waved it through, but not before they'd given House a long, warning look. House had ignored them, snatching his cane before the orderly could think better of it.

He's still not completely sure what's just happened. He'd been here, in the hospital, trying to absorb the horrific extent of Wilson's injuries, and then—

He'd been somewhere else. A sunlit meadow, at the height of summer. The buzz of insects loud in his ears. There'd been a boy, only a little younger than himself, crying and sobbing. Begging.

_"Please, no, I don' wanna do this! Stop! You're hurting me!"_

And back there, in that place and time that will never pass out of his memory no matter how much he tries to forget, House had watched, and done nothing. Until it was his turn.

The bile rises in the back of House's throat, and he feels like throwing up again.

_Every ten years,_ he thinks dully. _Every ten years Martin shows back up, and everything goes to hell until he's gone again._

There's a movement beside him.

"Dr. Wilson's out of surgery." Chase's voice is soft. "Birdsong had to do a splenectomy, and there were quite a few other internal lacerations and contusions."

House glances up for a moment and quickly looks back down.

Chase's scrubs are rusty with dried blood; he's come straight from the OR to tell House these things.

These things that should never have happened.

"His hand is stabilized—I think I lost count how many pins and screws Tomlinson put in there. CT scans look clean but there's always the possibility of Second Impact Syndrome. We'll be moving him to the ICU in a few minutes, keep a close eye there."

House ignores him, and after a while Chase sighs in resignation and leaves. House's knuckles shine white as he grips his cane more tightly.

_Get up,_ he thinks. _Go home. Gotta go to the bank tomorrow, raid the safe deposit box. It'll just about clean it out, but I can ... I can afford it._ House rubs his eyes, drags his right hand wearily along his jaw. _Bakery. Adele._

He can't seem to move just now, though. He's numb, as if he's the sole survivor of some great, annihilating natural disaster.

So House continues to sit, and if he whispers the name of that long-lost boy from so many years ago, he whispers it to himself because there's no one there to hear.  
 

 


	5. Aftershocks 1.5: Limbo

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** House goes home. Sort of. **  
****CHARACTERS:** House **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
Limbo

At some point after Chase walks out—it might be five minutes or it might be an hour—Cuddy arrives in House's office. She looks like a wrung-out dishrag but she's still in charge, on account of the two security thugs who remain at their posts outside his door. House says nothing, protests not once as they escort him downstairs. Twice he stumbles and almost falls along the way. 

He hates the cab, and the cabbie, and the road and the whole damn town. It's raining just a little and he hates that too.

At home, the front steps are dark and wet and it's all he can do to climb them. For a second he thinks he might fall, crack his head on the stone, do himself a favor. His body ignores that thought and carries him numbly inside.

From his bedroom he grabs the electric alarm clock, tugging the plug from its socket with a sharp yank. He needs it in the living room, so that he'll hear it clearly when it buzzes. The best spot he finds for it is atop the piano, on the edge where the cord will just reach the outlet. 

The piano seems like a stranger in this place, a person whose face he vaguely recalls but whose name he has long since forgotten. He allows himself to think of playing, and can't remember how it worked. Perhaps he'll never remember again, but there are more important things on his agenda just now.

Stumping back into the bedroom, he finds his old 'travel' alarm, the one that runs on batteries and that he never uses. He sets the correct time, watching the hands wind backward and wishing to all hell they really would do that. Then he sets the little clock on the coffee table. If one alarm fails to ring, the other will; no chances this time. Not this time. 

Finally convinced that he's done what he can, he falls on the sofa with the bottle of whiskey he'd opened the night before. The stuff he'd been contentedly sipping while Wilson— _no_. He reminds himself that the whole point of the whiskey is to _not think about that_. The point is to get as drunk as he can, as fast as he can. The point is to pass out, hopefully until the alarms go off at seven. That shouldn't be so hard; it's almost one o'clock now and he has never been so tired in his life.

His bed would be better than this, but there's no TV in the bedroom, and the TV is necessary. The talk show hosts and Toyota ads help to muffle certain _other_ , far less pleasant voices. He's drugging himself with that and the drinking, and he couldn't care less about either one. What he cares about is sleep, precious sleep. 

He'll take that oblivion however he can get it.  
   
 


	6. Aftershocks 1.6: Communication Breakdown

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** _"Can you identify the body, sir? We'll need for you to do that."_ **  
****CHARACTERS:** House, Chase, OMC, OFC **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**  
Communication Breakdown**

"Dr. House?"

The voice cuts through the thick fog that is House's brain on scotch. No, strike that. House's brain on sheer fucking exhaustion. Sheer fucking adrenaline. Sheer fucking utter paralyzing fear.

Well, no. Strike all those too. Strike them through with a big black marker, crumple up the paper and throw it away, because it's not any one of these. It's all of them.

"Dr. _House?"_

Who the hell is this?

"Dr. House, I'm the duty nurse tonight. I wanted to let you know that Dr. Wilson passed away and you'll need to collect his things tomorrow."

Wait ... what?

"Dr. James _Evan_ Wilson? He passed away tonight and you'll need to collect his things—"

No.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but—"

No. When I left the hospital he was alive. He was _alive._

"Doctor, I don't know anything about that. You'll need to fill out several forms, of course, and identify the body personally—"

_No._ He was alive! _What the fuck happened? Who is this?_

"I told you, sir, I'm the duty nurse."

Oh, God. God. No.

"Can you identify the body, sir? We'll need for you to do that."

Oh, Christ.

"Sir, I need a yes or a no answer. Can you identify your friend's body?"

My ...

"After all, sir—it's not like you were treating him like one."

 

* * *

House's eyes flash open and he bolts upright on the sofa. He's panting— _panting_ —like he's just run a goddamn marathon, and the nurse's voice is still echoing in his ears, mixing in with the low-pitched, brainless chatter from the TV.

"Oh crap," he breathes. "Oh shit. Oh crap. What the fuck ..."

Quick—what's the last thing he remembers?

Cuddy, throwing him out of the hospital. Making him take a cab. Before that. She'd sent Chase to his office ... what had Chase said? God damn it, _think!_

Chase had said Wilson had made it through surgery—he was going to be okay. And before _that?_ House lay back down slowly.

He'd been in a fight. One of the EMTs. Some skinny guy, a beanpole. He'd wanted to strangle him, pound his face in, crack his skull open all over the clean hospital floor.

He'd wanted to kill him.

 

* * *

"House."

House stares at the phone in his hand. Wasn't he just talking to someone? The deep amber liquid in the half-empty bottle winks at him, reflecting the flickering light from the television.

"Hey! House!" The accent registers at last.

Chase?

"Thought you'd never wake up," the voice on the phone grumbles. "Cuddy wants to know when you want to schedule the memorial service."

The what?

"Memorial service. For Wilson."

_What?_

"Yeah, apparently the whole hospital'll be there. So can you pick a day? 'Cause I really need to get back to Melbourne but I have to know when the service is first."

No—you said—

"I said what?"

You said he was alive.

"Really? Nah, he died on the table. Threw one hell of a clot and stroked out. How's Wednesday for you?"

... Wednesday?

"For the memorial service."

No. No, there can't be a memorial service because _he's not dead! You said he came through all right!_

"Well, I made a mistake, then, didn't I? Yeah, I'm always making mistakes like that. You know one time I thought you had brain cancer? And I cared? You fooled everybody with that one, House. Except Wilson, of course."

Wait ...

"Look, let me or Cuddy know whatever you decide. We've got the whiteboard all prepared."

Chase, what—

"Yep, we've drawn all the lines and connected all the dots, and you know where they all lead?"

— —

"You, House. They all lead back to you."

 

* * *

"Greg."

The voice is calm and urbane and _pleasant,_ and House knows this voice immediately. After all, he's just heard it, less than twenty-four hours ago when it came with a side accompaniment of Wilson being beaten to death.

No, wait a minute. Wilson's not dead. He's been dreaming. All night. Hasn't he?

The ice in his drink has melted. A tiny moat of condensation has formed around the bottom of the glass.

"Greg?"

And House wants to slam the phone down, throw it against the wall, smash it with his cane until it's in a million tiny pieces so that _his_ voice can never come through it again.

But he can't seem to do any of those things.

"I wanted to let you know I'm here," the voice continues, apparently unperturbed at House's silence. "In the ICU."

House sits straight up.

"You know, Greg, you really should speak to Security about how easy it is for a complete stranger to put on a set of surgical scrubs and walk right in. Procedures are truly quite lax here—unforgivably so, one might say."

House is up, fumbling for his Nikes, his leather jacket, his bike keys. Leave the helmet—got to go _now_. Still the voice goes on, silken tones with a steel edge cutting through the fog in his brain.

"He's looking at me right now, Greg. He tried to press the call button but I moved it out of reach."

The bike keys aren't where House left them. _Where are they? **Where are they?** No time_ — _I have to hang up and call the hospital_ — _warn them_ —

"Ah, well," the voice sighs. "I wish we could talk more, reminisce about some of the old times. I really did enjoy entertaining your friend, but I'm afraid that I must now finish what I started."

Somehow House has ended up on the floor beside the piano bench. He can't find his shoes. He can't find his jacket. The bike keys have disappeared. All the lamps have gone out and it's so, so dark. There's only the maddening, familiar voice inside his head.

"But the best part, Greg?" the voice purrs. "The best part was how _intimately_ James and I got to know each other."

There's a deafening _click!_ as Martin hangs up.

House screams, and falls off the sofa.

 

* * *

The pain shoots up House's spine; he clutches at his thigh, scrambling to rise, to get up, to reach the phone and warn the ICU staff to get to Wilson's room now, because—

Because what?

The TV still babbles softly in the background, otherwise the living room is dark and quiet. The phone is on the coffee table, just where he left it when he sat down. Slowly, gingerly, he pushes himself to his knees and stretches across the table to reach it. He flips it open.

No calls.

House eases himself back down onto the floor and rests against the sofa. He scrubs a hand across his face, realizes he's breathing in harsh, panting gasps, and forces himself to a calm he doesn't really feel.

None of it happened. No one called. Wilson's not dead. Martin's not in the ICU.

All of those statements are true.

Aren't they?

The hands on the small square face of the travel alarm are just a few degrees shy of dead level, pointing east and west. 3:45.

House groans. Obviously he's not going to be able to get back to sleep, so he gets up and hobbles into the bathroom.

He'll take a shower, clear his head.

Go in. Walk the hallways, watch who comes and goes in the ICU.

Just in case.  
 


	7. Aftershocks 2.1: A Damn Expensive Danish

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** It is twenty-three minutes after nine.  
**CHARACTERS:** House, OFC **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**A Damn Expensive Danish**

****  
It is twenty-three minutes after nine. For once in his life, House is early.

Adele turns out to be pretty and young. He wouldn't have thought it, with a name like that.

Her big green eyes widen a little as he drops the old military-issue backpack beside the bakery's cash register. Doubtless she's been expecting him, in the sense that she's been expecting _someone_ with an important delivery. Whatever image she had in her head, he obviously doesn't match it.

He doesn't care. There's an obscene amount of money in that pack, carefully counted and carelessly thrown inside. It ought to hurt like hell to part with so much cash; maybe it does hurt, in fact. It's hard to tell when the rest of him hurts so bad already.

"Doctor House?" Her voice is quiet, her delicate fingers tucking a strand of light brown hair back behind her ear. 

"Yeah."  He leans on the counter, feeling as if he might simply collapse otherwise. He knows he looks less like a doctor than like a junkie convict out on parole—yet she doesn't back away from him.

She nods, and then gives him a steady look that conveys that she needs him to wait there for a moment. Swiftly she walks into the back of the bakery, the frayed old sack clutched in her fragile, pale hand.

When she returns, the money is gone. In its place she carries a little white pastry bag. She gives him that, and he stands in silence, feeling the heat seeping through the paper, warming his fingers. _What the hell_ , he wonders, _is this all about?_

"I think," she says softly, "you already paid for it." 

Oh, he's paid for it, but he doesn't need it and he doesn't need her pity. He tries to stare her down, to frighten her, but she doesn't move. He'd shove the little gift back in her face, or smash it on the floor with his foot and his cane, if he weren't too tired and too hungry to do either one. Whatever's in the bag, it smells good. He lets his shoulders drop and rests against the counter, taking the weight off his aching right side. 

"What's one more dollar?" he mutters, jamming his hand into his pocket and pulling out a withered bill. "Gimme some coffee, too."  
 

 


	8. Aftershocks 2.2: The Cops

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** A pair of police detectives pay a visit to Dr. Wilson. **  
****CHARACTERS:** Wilson, Cuddy, OMCs **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
  
**The Cops**  
  
The two cops sit in the Dean of Medicine's office, listening to her talk about her critically injured Head of Oncology.

Bennie can see Trevor out of the corner of his eye; his partner's got his notebook open and is pretending to write stuff down, but in reality he's doodling. Tiny ballpoint sketches of animals populate half the page; Bennie squints at a particularly good rendering of a horse. Unless it's a cow, of course; it's hard to tell.

"And I'm afraid I can only allow you a few minutes with Dr. Wilson."

Bennie forces his attention back to the Dean of Medicine—Lisa Cuddy's her name, and she's a real looker. Dark-haired, high cheekbones, a strong nose ... she looks a lot like the woman who married his Uncle Pete, and he wonders briefly if she's Sephardic like Natalia.

"That'll be fine, Dr. Cuddy," Bennie says politely. "We're just looking for a preliminary statement."

 

* * *

Bennie is surprised for a moment that this Wilson doc's not on a vent. He's seen plenty of beating victims in his line of work, but this guy looks like absolute shit. Worse than something the cat dragged in—more like something the cat ate, hacked up, and then ate again. Maybe not even a cat. Something bigger, meaner. A saber-toothed tiger. A velociraptor, like in that Michael Crichton movie. Trevor hands him the doc's file, but Bennie shakes his head. He's already seen it. Fractured ribs, ruptured spleen, broken jaw, broken left hand, badly bruised kidneys—and that's just the first page. The man'll be pissing blood for a week. The crazy fucks who did this must've been high as kites; they'd taken the guy down and then kept beating him, kicking him. Fucking amoral society when even doctors aren't safe on the streets.

"Hey. Dr. Wilson, can you hear me?" Trevor's talking to the guy; his voice is low and very gentle. "Dr. Wilson?"

The doc stirs; his eyes open, barely visible through the swollen flesh surrounding them. He looks at them blankly.

"Uh," Dr. Wilson says. His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, even with the PMV on the trach tube that allows him to speak. Bennie steps forward.

"Dr. Wilson, I'm Detective Kafka and this is Detective Nottingham. We're with the Princeton Borough Police Department and we'd like to talk to you for just a minute. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, sir?"

The doc blinks. "Uh," he says again.

Bennie decides to take that as a yes.

"Doctor, can you tell me what happened to you?"

The Wilson doc stares at them for a moment; the low hums and beeps of the ICU are the only sounds. Then the guy sighs, a shallow rise and fall.

"'Ugged," he whispers. "Kids. 'Ugged."

And they can't get much more out of him than that. He didn't see their faces. Doesn't know how many. No identifying features, marks, or tattoos. He'd gone down and they'd just kept hitting him, stomping him. Just a particularly brutal ... mugging.

Through it all Bennie and Trevor keep perfectly straight faces, and at the end they thank the doc for his time and wish him a speedy recovery. The doc falls asleep again even as they're talking.

 

* * *

"He's lying," Bennie says, and opens the lobby door. He and Trevor stand outside the hospital for a moment, watching sick people come and go.

"Fuckin' A he's lying," Trevor replies. He fishes a cellophane bag of sunflower seeds from a pocket and pops one in his mouth. "He's left-handed. You think it was a coincidence they smashed his left hand into a million little doctor pieces?" He spits; the wet seed hull goes flying.

"Christ, please don't tell me you're gonna be eating those things in the cruiser again."

"Fuck you, whadda you care?" Another zebra-striped seed goes into Trevor's mouth.

"Because it's a goddamn filthy habit, that's why," Bennie says. "And I gotta live with you and your filthy habits because you're my fucking partner."

"Lucky you," Trevor replies. "All cops should have a partner like me. Do 'em good. Elevate their psyches or something."

"Elevate their blood pressure is more like it," Bennie mutters. "So why is this Dr. Wilson lying?"

Trevor shrugs. "Who knows? Ex-wives got together, hired some badass regulators? Jealous lover? _Somebody_ wanted to put the fear of God into him."

"You got that right," Bennie says. "Guess we'll find out soon enough. I'm betting this Wilson doc'll break down soon enough with the right questions being asked."

"And you're the man to ask those questions." Trevor grins, and spits out another hull.

"Fuckin' A," Bennie replies. "You eat those things in the car, I'm killing you."

"Like to see you try," Trevor says equably. "Like to see you try."

 

* * *

The next morning there's an internal Police Department memo on both their desks. The Wilson case is closed; the mugging has been linked to similar cases in Trenton, Atlantic City, and Weehawken. The gang of teenagers has been apprehended in Peapack. No further action is to be taken.

Bennie and Trevor exchange long looks, then shake their heads.

Theirs is not to reason why. There's always another case, just a phone call away.  
 

 


	9. Aftershocks 3.1: Strange Angel

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** House sets his own visiting hours. **  
****CHARACTERS:** House **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Strange Angel**

 

__He stands at the end of the hallway, outside the ICU, too worn out to even tap his cane on the tiles as he usually does when he's thinking.  
  
It's Monday night, the night when things were supposed to get better. House had _plans_ for this night, damn it. He had plans and those plans did _not_ involve Wilson in intensive care. They didn't involve being worried that Wilson might not live to see another Monday. That could happen; it could happen so easily in a case like this. It probably won't, but it could.  
  
For 'lunch' and 'dinner' House has had a few pieces of junk from the hospital vending machines. Wilson hasn't had anything. His intestinal tract was so traumatized—first from the blows and then from the repairs—that they've put him on TPN for the next few days. All his calories and nutrients are going directly into his veins. They've got to make sure he can handle food before they give him any, but even then it won't exactly be prime rib.  
  
House has seen the x-rays, the cleanly snapped left side of Wilson's jaw. He'll be eating through tubes and straws for at least six weeks.  
  
Martin's probably dining like a king tonight, wherever he is. House can't help wondering: How close? Is he eating lobster with Reno, spreading a little of that blood money around? Is he down at that pricey little restaurant that Reno's cousin owns? Ordering the filet mignon and planning the next execution?  
  
Maybe he and his goons are somewhere on the outskirts of town, down in some clammy middle-class basement, already busy killing some other poor sap.  
  
The truth is that House doesn't give a damn, just as long as Martin stays away from _here_. He doesn't care about the next victim, whose name and face he will never know. He _can't_ care, because his whole scant supply of caring is bound up in Wilson's bandages, tucked between Wilson's blankets, dissolved invisibly into Wilson's IV. House wants to go in and _see_ just how bad it is, but he can't, not with so many people around. This is a _private_ hell; no spectators and no other sinners allowed.  
  
He turns away from the ICU, leaving a trail of crumbs as he chokes down the dry cookie he bought with his last two quarters. In the Diagnostics lounge there's a little stale coffee to wash it down. It'll do.  
  
He waits in Wilson's office, sprawled on Wilson's sofa and toying with Wilson's expensive collectible baseball. He waits, because people do go home to their own little hells, eventually. They'll go home, and then he can go see Wilson.  
  
Waiting turns into sleeping, quite on accident. He dreams again, waking with a jolt, a sharp inhalation and no memory at all of the nightmare. It had to have been a nightmare, because that's all his life consists of now. Still he lies back and tries to sleep just a little more.  
  
When that fails, he gets up and turns on Wilson's computer. His snooping routine is comforting, familiar, and it pisses Wilson off; it is precisely the distraction that House wants.

 

* * *

It's 1:57 a.m. when House finally approaches the nurses' station. He smiles because Daria is there. There is a reason why he remembers her name, and that reason is a good one. This will be so easy, like shooting a pretty blonde fish in a barrel.

"Doctor _House?_ " She's almost gaping at the sight of him, here so late at night. Her hair catches glimmers of green from the fluorescent lights as she bobs her head in disbelief.

"Nope. Not here," he snaps. "And if I _hear_ about this, I'll know who gossiped. I can gossip too. I've got some _luscious_ morsels about you and Doctor Lyman."

Her little pink mouth falls open and House smirks as he turns toward the ICU. She's got a husband, and it's not Lyman. _Daria_ will not be a problem.

 

* * *

He slides the door open carefully, just a few inches, and peers in. Dark as the room is, it's still possible to tell that Wilson's deeply asleep. Too bad it's not possible to tell that this is _Wilson_. He might as well be a victim of some third-world regime, a casualty of war.

House moves toward Wilson's side and stares at his exposed right arm and hand. This is one of the few uninjured spots on his body, and so they had to stick a nice wide IV in there. Wilson's throat wasn't messed up either, and that's got a trach tube. As if they were finishing the job Martin started.

He notes that Wilson's got his morphine drip ramped up as far as it will go. _Good for you_ , he thinks, and then can't help wondering whether Wilson will learn anything from this. __

_Of course he will_ , replies a smooth, light voice in House's mind. _He'll finally learn that friendship with Greg House is never worth the trouble_.

House quietly clicks on his penlight and uses it to read and re-read Wilson's chart. He already knows the devastation, because Chase has gotten him copies of every scrap of Wilson-related paperwork. What he's after is any evidence of change in any direction in the last few hours.

There's nothing much. Wilson's stable, for now.

He hangs the chart back in its place and lifts the soft covers from Wilson's feet. He's been wondering about this, but he couldn't ask without raising questions that he does not want to answer. House was a military brat and he learned about _interrogation_ techniques whether he wanted to or not. Wilson's feet are clean, though. The soles are pink and pristine; there are no bruises, no cuts, nothing. One less horror on his conscience, although there are already so many that he's not sure one more or less would matter.

He straightens up, holding the light like a candle, cupping his fingers around it to guard the flame. It's silly, of course. That glaring little pinpoint wouldn't wake Wilson, who's got enough drugs in his system to knock out a rhino. All the same, there's no reason to take the chance. House leaves his cane hanging over the railing and limps slowly along the side of the bed, holding the light as near to Wilson as he dares.

Wilson's left hand is invisible, swathed in cotton, held immobile in a complex molded brace. House shines his small spotlight upon it, and the metal components gleam softly back at him. That's the hand that rolls joints for cancer patients. It's Wilson's pancake-flipping hand; it's the one that signs prescriptions and restaurant checks. House hasn't seen the x-rays of it yet. He doesn't _want_ to see them, but the moment he can get ahold of them he will. He shades his little light again and turns toward the head of the bed.

The light bleeds through House's fingers, gently illuminating the erratic curve of Wilson's mouth, the lips chapped and cut, misshapen, hinting at the wired-shut jaw underneath. His nose is bandaged, splinted, and so badly swollen that he can't breathe through that, either; it's why the trach tube is still there. A few more minutes lying in that alley and it would have been all over. It would have been death, or enough brain damage to amount to the same thing.

Wilson's inflamed, bruised, broken face is as stubbly now as House's. It seems so wrong for that raw, abused skin to be sprouting hair. It makes him look like a slaughtered animal, rather than the beautiful traitor that House knows him to be. And Wilson _is_ a traitor, though that was never his intent. If anything, Tritter betrayed Wilson. But it was still Wilson's own stupid fault for not seeing what the man was, wasn't it? That was what House had been telling himself, excusing the retaliation he was taking on his friend.

He had wanted Wilson to suffer, to _understand_. He was supposed to learn how it felt when you'd screwed up and then found that nothing you could do would ever be good enough to fix it. How it felt to be _House_.

So he talked to Wilson about patients, and about his fun new friends, and nothing else. He had loved watching the jabs hit home, seeing those subtle flickers of hurt in Wilson's eyes when he'd tell a joke he heard from someone in that shark pool. It was good to watch Wilson's posture crumble a little with every report of a winning hand of poker or an accurately called horse race. Good to see him cringe at the wallet full of cash, the winnings House would flaunt but never share.

It was good for a while to rebel against clean, shiny Wilson. None of Reno's guys cared how much House smoked or how many pills he took. The only time those men ever talked about a _liver_ it was because they were ordering one, with grilled onions.

Once—and it was only once—Wilson huffed at him in that edgy voice of his, telling him it was a bad idea. _Those are dangerous men_ , said Wilson. _They're not your friends. You're going to get hurt._

He'd laughed in Wilson's face and walked away.

He wasn't going to get hurt. He was just about done with those morons anyhow; they kept telling the same jokes over and over. They didn't even get half the jokes House told in return. They **_ate_** _liver and onions_. They thought his name was funny, and they'd call him _Hotel_ or _Condo_ , laughing like it was the most original thing ever.

There was just that one more irresistible bet House wanted to make. He'd win that, he was sure of it, and then he'd saunter off and that would be the last those guys would see of him.

Now it's Monday night—well, _Tuesday morning_ , as if it matters—and it's all wrong. Wilson didn't know it, but he was supposed to have slept on House's sofa tonight. He was supposed to have brought food and beer, and stayed and ridden out the last waves of House's wrath. That anger had to run its course, but the truth was it did matter why Wilson made all those stupid mistakes. It mattered that he'd been trying to save House's ass, and that he'd done the only thing he thought he could do. _As long as you're trying to be good, you can do whatever you want. Or_ , he amends the thought, _whatever you think you have to_.

And House had meant to forgive it all, but only after he made certain that Wilson wouldn't be such an idiot ever again. _So it's all gone perfectly, hasn't it? Because there's no way in hell he'll try anymore._ He shuffles toward the door in silence, picking up his cane from the railing of the bed, pausing to carefully re-cover Wilson's bare feet. __

Oh, Jimmy. I should've been more careful what I wished for.  
   



	10. Aftershocks 3.2: The Firefly

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Every night, Wilson watches... **  
****CHARACTERS:** Wilson **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**The Firefly**  


The firefly bobs and weaves through the darkness, its tiny light dipping and blinking.

Wilson watches through slitted eyes almost hidden beneath the swelling; in his heavily-drugged state the idea that there's a bio-luminescent bug in what should be a sterile ICU environment makes perfect sense.

It reminds Wilson of when he was a kid, when his dad used to take him and David camping. They'd do all those corny father-son things—toasting marshmallows on green sticks, pointing out the constellations in the clear night sky, telling terrifying ghost stories about drowned women and escaped madmen with hooks for hands.

There had always been fireflies, their tails brightening and dimming like some kind of alien semaphore—a Morse code for insects.

Later on, of course, he'd learned that silent signaling was a mating dance, a search for a companion.

A search for love.

Wilson's chest aches; it hurts so much to breathe that sometimes he just wants to stop. He knows now that all those stories his dad told him were true; that there _are_ madmen out there, villains worse than any campfire tale, laying in wait for their innocent victims.

There's not enough fireflies in the world to protect everyone, but for right now, Wilson will take just this one.  
 


	11. Aftershocks 4.1: Rib Plates

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** House has a solution for Wilson's broken ribs. It's...mostly legal. **  
****CHARACTERS:** House, OFC **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Rib Plates**

 

"Where did you get that?"

House is holding out his hand in the middle of Tomlinson's office. She'd be head of orthopedics if she weren't also the best orthopedic surgeon in the state—House likes competent people in the right positions, and he's actually attended meetings to argue for keeping her out of the administrative maelstrom. He'd have done the same for Wilson, too, but that deal had happened too quickly.

A little plastic-wrapped bundle wavers silently on his palm. He smiles smugly.

" _HOW_ did you get that?" Tomlinson has gone a little pale beneath her prematurely silver hair, but she leans forward and pulls the bundle from House's hand. She turns it over, inspecting, feeling the metal inside the plastic.

"I have my ways," House replies. "You can use it?"

Tomlinson is almost salivating. "I have been trying to get my hands on one of these for months. Somebody _finally_ figures out how to fix broken ribs, and the guys in Portland are being assholes about the clinical trials. I can't believe you got hold of this, and so fast." Reluctantly, she sets the bundle on the desk where House can reach it. "But I can't use it."

"What do you mean, you can't use it?"

"It's not approved, and since we're not officially part of the trial, I can't use it," she says and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

House reaches into his pocket and pulls out a whole handful of bundles. "I don't care if it's approved or not. I _especially_ don't care about 'official.' I got them for Wilson."

She shakes her head. "Dr. Wilson's ribs—"

"—are broken badly enough to need these. He'd qualify for the study if he was in _Oregon_." House drops the bundles on her desk next to the first one and glares at her. "Use what you don't need for Wilson on whoever you want. Hell, use them for drawer pulls for all I care. He's scheduled for surgery tomorrow; you can install them then."

Tomlinson snorts. "We're operating on his _hand_ tomorrow. Don't you think he'd notice a few new incisions in his chest?"

"He won't care, because he'll be able to _breathe_!" House shouts. He takes a deep breath to rein himself in, then continues in a more normal voice. "I'm his doctor, and I'm telling you to use them."

She leans forward again and pushes the bundles around on her desk. "Eight of us are _his doctors_ , House. I won't use these without Dr. Wilson's consent. And Cuddy needs to know about this, too."

"Fine," House snarls and turns to stalk out. "I'll fill them in."

Tomlinson calls to him as he's pulling the door open. "Thanks for these," she says, waving one of the little bundles.

He nods, and growls a little, and pulls the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

Tomlinson smiles, then pages her surgical team. They'll need to have some discussion about putting in the U-plates before tomorrow. And she'll need to reschedule Mrs. Cook; the plates will add to Dr. Wilson's time in the OR.

She decides while turning one of the plates in her fingers that they'll do Dr. Wilson's ribs first. If he doesn't handle the sedation well, they can always go back to the hand later—she's confident in the pin job she did Sunday night. But the plates are more critical; the last thing he needs is pneumonia on top of everything else.

When she first started hearing the stories, Tomlinson was glad her specialty is one that House's department rarely needs. After dealing with the man this week, she's still glad she doesn't have to work with him on a regular basis. But there's one thing the stories seem to leave out more often than not: whatever his outrageous methods, House can make things happen.

 

[Rib Plates](http://www.ohsu.edu/ohsuedu/newspub/releases/062706ribs.cfm)  
     


 


	12. Aftershocks 4.2: Fault Lines

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Wilson tells a story. **  
****CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**  
Fault Lines**

****  
House hears bits and pieces of Wilson's story. Put together, the short statement he'd whispered to the police doesn't add up to much, but it's news and it races through the hospital's gossip pipeline in record time, gaining new details every time House hears it at a nurses' station or in a hallway.

_Dr. Wilson was mugged. No, it was attempted murder. A bunch of teenagers jumped him from behind, they were high on something. It wasn't teenagers, it was a group of older guys. He didn't recognize any of them. He knew all of them. They had tattoos and beards. They were clean-shaven, looked like college kids. It was a black gang, Crips or Bloods. Nah, it was Latin Kings, I read an article. They beat him with baseball bats. A tire iron. He was shot five times. There was spinal cord damage, he'll never walk again. Why? Who would do something like this? Take my word for it_ — _it was a hate crime. He's gay? Nah, Jewish._

 

* * *

House sits in the hard, uncomfortable visitor's chair, watching Wilson sleep. It's been four days, and he taps his cane in an unsteady rhythm on the hospital room's floor. He looks up to find Wilson's eyes on him.

The swelling is finally starting to go down, but Wilson's face is still terribly bruised and battered, like the rest of him. House can just make out the gleam of tiny stitches above Wilson's right eye; his nose is splinted and taped. The TPN line still effectively tethers him to the bed, but the trach tube is gone at last, replaced by a nasal cannula delivering the extra oxygen he can't get on his own.

The patient chart hangs from the foot of the bedframe. House already knows every word in it, every update. It's clear Wilson is alive only because Martin desired it; still, something could so easily have gone wrong. House has a sudden, bloody vision of just one of those fractured ribs splintering—spearing into one of Wilson's lungs or even his heart. He could be sitting by a slab in the morgue right now, instead of Wilson's bed.

Wilson is still watching him.

"Wilson," he says. "Wilson, I'm—"

House's voice trails away in his throat. His gaze fixes on the floor and stays there.

He can feel Wilson's eyes on him for a long, long time. When Wilson finally speaks, it's in a low, flat tone as if he's telling a joke with no punchline.

"There was a _cow,"_ he begins, "an' a horse. But they din't have names."

House listens as Wilson tells him the real story, the true story. How he was taken off the street, how he'd been handcuffed and a bag slipped over his head like he was on his way to an execution. House grits his teeth as Wilson describes how he'd been forced to kneel before his kidnappers, as the man he knew as Grey Eyes had told him the story of a racehorse named Indian Dancer. How Wilson had been so fucking scared. How that had been only the beginning.

The words start to blur together; with Wilson's jaw wired shut he can't impart very much emotion to his voice, and somehow that makes it so much worse.

_They hun' me up like they were butchers ten'erizing a side a meat. They took turns beatin' me, an' somebody mention' batt'ry cables an' oh God I was so scared. Scared they were gonna 'lectrocute me_ — _burn me. One a them want'd t'feed me, like I was a an'mal in a friggin' cage, but Grey Eyes wouldn't let him. An' when I thought it was over it wasn't an' they broke my han'. They stomp't on't two times an' broke it._

There's a snuffling, gasping sound, and House looks up.

"He said he knew you," Wilson says, and House's gut clenches. "He said I cou'd call him Mycrof'." Wilson snuffles again, and then slow tears are rolling down Wilson's cheeks.

"I piss'd my pants, Housh," he says miserably. "I piss'd my fuckin' pants like a little _kid._ "

House can't trust himself to speak for quite a while, and when he does, his voice is rusty as if he hasn't used it in a long time.

"And—that's all you remember?"

Wilson makes a croaking sound that under other circumstances might have been a laugh.

"Isn' that _'nuff?_ " he asks. **  
**  



	13. Aftershocks 5.1: The Shave

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Now he knows how lucky he is. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
  
 **The Shave**  
  
  
As he'd expected, it hadn't taken much talking to get Wilson to consent to the U-plates for his ribs. In fact, it hadn't taken House any talking at all. He'd dropped one of the plates on the conference room table that morning before anyone had arrived. As soon as he walked in, Chase spotted the plate, grinned like an idiot, grabbed it up and practically _bounded_ out of the room.  
  
House let him have his feeling of victory. It had been Chase's contact that got him the plates, after all.  
  
Now House sits, silently turning the latest gift in his hands. He listens to the monitors and watches as Wilson slowly comes back to consciousness. The nurses took advantage of his sedation for the surgery and gave him a quick sponge bath before putting him back in bed; he smells better than he has in days.  
  
House hasn't spoken to Wilson since the night before, since Wilson told him the _real_ story.  
  
But he's been watching, he's been seeing Wilson all along. He's been watching the swelling go down and the morphine go in. He's been watching Wilson breathe like a drowning man.  
  
He's been watching Wilson's beard grow.  
  
Wilson's eyes find him almost as soon as they open, and Wilson breathes in a long sigh.  
  
"Hey," House says softly. "Okay?"  
  
Wilson's eyes well with moisture, and House leans forward to reach for the morphine pump.   
  
"Mmmmm," Wilson says and shakes his head, very slightly. House pauses and looks over at him. Wilson takes in another deep breath, lets it out in a long sigh. "Dudn't hurt."  
  
House leans back, breathes a sigh of his own. "That's...good."  
  
Wilson's lips curl up, just a little at the edges, and he whispers, "Yeah." He breathes again, and it's hard to read his expression, but he looks almost...content. Like he's suddenly found himself flopped on the beach, soaking up sunshine instead of seawater. "Really goodh. Anks."  
  
"You should thank Chase," House replies. "He called in the favor to get them."  
  
Wilson grunts in response, then sniffs. "A bath?"  
  
"Yeah," House says. "While you were under." He fidgets a little in his chair and looks up to see Wilson watching him. It's unnerving, the way Wilson watches him now. He only follows with his eyes.  
  
House clears his throat. "Anyway, I thought you might like the full-service treatment. You haven't looked in the mirror lately, but your beard is _bad_." He holds up his gift: An electric razor.  
  
Wilson's eyes go wide, then crinkle around the edges like he's trying to smile. He looks down at his arms, the one freshly bandaged, braced, and strapped, the other with a pulse-ox and stuck full of IVs. He looks back at the razor longingly, then at House, and says, "Woudju?"  
  
House fights down the surprised bubble in his chest and presses his wrists into his knees to stop his hands from shaking. He's not sure he can do it, not without causing Wilson more pain.  
  
"Are you—" House clears his throat, "—you sure?"  
  
Wilson nods, just a little. "Itches," he says. "Drivin' me nuts."  
  
"It might hurt." Because House has already hurt him enough. Because House doesn't want to hurt him again.  
  
Wilson's eyes track over to the morphine pump, then back to House's face. "'M on the goodh shtuff." He raises his chin a little, indicating the razor. "C'mon."  
  
House draws in a deep breath, then hauls himself out of the chair to stand next to the bed. He starts to lean over, but quickly straightens up as a spike of protest from his leg warns him the position won't be tenable for long. Quickly, he locates an adjustable stool in the corner and hobbles over to retrieve it. Before long he's settled back next to the bed and pushing up his sleeves.  
  
He reaches toward Wilson's face slowly, hesitantly, giving Wilson ample time to back out, to tell him to back off. He tries to slow his breathing, to not give away how very shaky this makes him. He can't explain the nerves, can't explain why he's so certain Wilson's going to scream and tell him to get the hell out.  
  
All the while Wilson simply watches him with those dark eyes.  
  
House feels the razor start to slip in his fingers, and he quickly pulls back so he doesn't drop the thing on Wilson's chest.  
  
Wilson lets out a huffing noise between his teeth. "Anytime, Housh."  
  
With a huff of breath that _could_ have been a nervous laugh, House looks back at Wilson. "Sorry. Okay." He wipes his hands on the blanket and turns the razor on. Wilson doesn't move as he reaches for his chin.  
  
Gently, House ghosts the razor close to Wilson's cheek. He glides it along the jawbone, back toward the ear, and pulls it up toward the cheekbone. The razor floats against the abused skin; the buzz drowns out the noises of the monitors and House is glad it drowns out the sound of his breathing, too.  
  
A few tiny hairs litter Wilson's pillow and stick to his ear in the wake of the razor. House brushes at them twice, ineffectually, before giving up and deciding to ignore them. If they bother Wilson, he can always get a nurse to change his pillow.   
  
The terrain of Wilson's cheek is altered considerably by the wires in his jaw, so House has to go over it a few times. He cautiously places two fingers on Wilson's cheek to tighten the skin as he brings the razor back toward his ear. Obediently, Wilson turns his face away slightly, to give him access.  
  
House nearly drops the razor again when Wilson tilts his head back for House to shave the underside of his jaw. Instead, he turns the razor off and tries to meet Wilson's eyes, but they're closed.  
  
"That's gotta hurt," he says.  
  
"Not bad," Wilson whispers and opens his eyes. He turns his head toward House and glares. "You shtop now an' I make shure Cuddy sendsh you with th' mobile hoshpital on its nex' tour down south."  
  
House puts on his most wounded look. "You wouldn't!"  
  
Wilson simply tilts his head back again and closes his eyes.   
  
Nothing else could have conveyed Wilson's trust in him so completely; Wilson could have talked through his wires for hours and not been as eloquent as those closed eyes and that bared, bandaged throat. When House starts the razor again and lightly grips Wilson's chin, Wilson is warm under his fingers, vital and solid and _real_.  
  
The skin beneath Wilson's jaw is just as dark as the rest of his face; the bruising travels down in dark streaks, reaching for the bruising rising from his collarbone. House makes short work of the side closest to him, slowing the razor when he gets close to the bandage from the tracheotomy. Wilson responds to the slightest pressure of his fingers and rolls his face toward House so he can reach the far side of his jaw.  
  
House repeats his pattern across Wilson's other cheek, more confidently resting his fingers against the skin but careful of the pressure. When he gets to Wilson's chin and mouth, he pauses the razor in midair, considering. Wilson has two stitches in his lower lip, which will be hard to avoid, and there's very little flesh stretched over the wires and teeth, so even the slightest pressure will be painful.  
  
House bites his own lip in concentration. Gently, he lays his thumb over the stitches and splays his fingers just below Wilson's jaw. Wilson's breath puffs warmly across his knuckles, and House pauses, just a moment, surprised to feel Wilson's pulse beating beneath his fingertips. House breathes a little sigh of relief; the beep of monitors has never been as reassuring as this, as _feeling_ life under his own hands. During every visit to this room, he's been watching the monitors, reading the chart, telling himself that Wilson's _alive_ , but he hasn't touched, hasn't let himself _know_. Now he knows how lucky he is.  
  
Carefully, he works the razor in small circles over Wilson's chin. He flips the sideburn trimmer open and starts the hardest part: between Wilson's lips and nose. House frowns as he rests his fingertips over Wilson's dry lips; he has to pull them a little to get all those pesky whiskers and he knows it has to be uncomfortable. Still, Wilson's breathing stays even and strong.  
  
When he sits back and turns off the razor, House is surprised to see Wilson watching him. "There," he says loudly. "There's only room for one scruffy sexy doctor in this hospital."  
  
"Should'na shaved me, then," Wilson replies quietly, just before his eyes slip closed.  
  
House chuckles. "Goodnight, Wilson."  
  
"'Nigh, Housh," Wilson murmurs without opening his eyes.  
  
House watches as Wilson relaxes into sleep. After a few minutes, he exits the room as quietly as he can. He stands in front of the door, watching nurses and doctors bustling around the nurses' station, patients and visitors wandering the halls. He looks down at his feet and makes a decision.  
  
House steps over to the phone on the wall before he heads for the elevators. "Chase," he barks. "Get me the number for home healthcare, and meet me in the lobby."  
  


	14. Aftershocks 5.2: A Secret Weapon

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Wilson makes a decision. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
  
 **A Secret Weapon**  
  
  
House notices every card and every present in Wilson's room. He has to touch it all; he picks up each item, inspects it, reads the notes—and says nothing. He doesn't treat it like junk even though most of it really is. He doesn't clear away everyone else's sentiments and toss them aside. He doesn't make room the way he usually would for his own sharp thoughts, his own place in Wilson's domain.    
  
He puts everything back where he found it. House's back is turned, but the tremor in his hand is audible when the get-well cards rattle against the table's surface. He thinks he hasn't been caught, thinks Wilson's still sedated from the surgery, so Wilson shuts his eyes again and waits. Instantly he's dozing, drifting lazily until he hears House sit down.  
  
Wilson knows him. He knows that moment of hesitation when House asks if he's okay. His voice is soft and faltering and he can't find much to say.He's __worried_ ; _it's kind of funny and kind of satisfying—almost as good as discovering that, at long last, it's possible to take a deep breath without pain. That simple relief is the best thing he's felt since all this happened.  
  
There's fear in House's eyes when he holds up his offering, an electric razor. It's silver and black and it would look out of place among the pastel-colored things Wilson's been given. Other people send roses and carnations, plush animals, balloons; leave it to House to bring something Wilson actually needs. Leave it to House to be so afraid that his own little gift won't be wanted.  
  
Wilson could almost laugh. Of _course_ it's wanted. It's the best thing anyone has brought him.  
  
House sits there in silence a while, busying his hands, running them over the body of the razor. House always used to watch him so carefully, reading him, looking for any number of things. Hidden secrets, signs of approval, or the body language that occasionally gave away Wilson's lies. More recently it seemed House was always searching for weak spots, places to attack. One way or another, he was always watching, but not now. Now his gaze falls away, slips downward, rests instead on the object in his hands.  
  
If Wilson wants to, he knows he can destroy House now, crush him in a way that would never have been possible before. He can do it as easily as breaking an egg: _This is all your fault, you bastard. You did this to me. Go to hell._ There's a part of him that wants to say those things and watch House flee the scene, hunched over his cane, unable to look at anyone. He deserves that. He does.  
  
Except that he doesn't.    
  
"... but your beard is _bad_ ," says House, looking up at him again. House is trying to smile, but the plea in his expression is unmistakable.    
  
House has brought a real gift, the kind he never, ever gives. This isn't a gag or a toy; it's something he absolutely _means_. That shouldn't be enough to please Wilson, but right now, it is. He's known House too many years to ignore the significance.   
  
All House wants is a nod, another word or two. He wants permission to leave the gift and get safely away. For a second Wilson thinks again of the strange new power he has gained, of how easily and terribly he could punish House.  
  
But that's not what he wants—God help him, but it isn't. He wants that nice shiny razor, wants to feel clean again, wants to know that House gives a damn, cares enough to stay. He wants his friend, who knows what really happened.   
  
He can't help it that the careless jackass who put him here is also the only one he truly wants to talk to. He can't stop the affection that overtakes him at the sight of House, desperate to hide and yet sitting here with all his armor stripped away. He can't stop the urge to make House come closer, to make him _handle_ the thing he broke.  
  
Wilson's eyes linger longingly on the razor, and he decides to see just how much more House is willing to give.  
  


	15. Aftershocks 5.3: Stranded

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** There are so few ways she can help. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Cuddy, House, Wilson. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
 ****

**Stranded**  
  
  
This morning on the news there was footage of the aftermath of an earthquake. Dazed and devastated people were wandering amidst the chunks and shards of what had been their world, their lives. She had felt a sudden, unexpected stab of recognition. She had almost seen herself there, ragged and dusty, looking for whatever familiar landmarks might remain.  
  
No amount of medical training could have prevented the shockwave of nausea that struck her when they wheeled James Wilson through those sliding doors. Had she not known it was him, she'd never have guessed. In retrospect she thinks she might actually have gotten sick, had House not so effectively distracted her.    
  
He thinks he's hiding now, locked securely in Wilson's darkened office. As if the Dean of Medicine doesn't have a master key.  
  
There's a reading lamp pointing at the sofa where House lies asleep, in the middle of a snowdrift of paper. It all looks medical: journals, reprinted articles, and things he's pulled off the internet. The sheets are scattered over the floor, the furniture, and across his chest. Cuddy crouches carefully at House's side and reads what she can.    
  
Everything here is about Wilson. _Everything_. The latest news in surgery and rehabilitation for badly broken hands. Advanced techniques for nasal reconstruction. Recipes for liquid meals for ... _oh, House_.    
  
She wants to embrace him, wants to soothe him, wants to reward him for trying. He'd never allow it, though. The only reward he'll accept is her willingness to help him take care of his friend, to understand his demands for what they are.    
  
She'd been looking for him so she could make him do something other than sit around moping and torturing himself. Clinic duty, a fresh case—something to keep him from drowning. Turns out House is a step or two ahead of her, as he so often is; he has already chosen the best possible lifeline. There's no way she'll try to take it from him.  
  
Cuddy stands up again, looking him over. His greying hair and the lines on his face do not make him look any less like a forlorn, orphaned boy. The urge to touch him, to try and be gentle, tender with him, is almost unbearable—and completely foolish. She won't touch; she won't wake him at all. He's lost so much sleep already.  
  
She goes to the door and turns the knob with great care, so as not to make a sound.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Wilson isn't awake either.    
  
It's unsettling how empty, how bereft of visitors his room always is. There's plenty of _stuff_ , and she supposes that's much better than nothing, but it isn't what she wants for him. It's less than he deserves.    
  
The nurses have put a cart in here to hold some of the things, gifts from patients who've learned that Wilson was hurt. A little girl has sent him a plush yellow unicorn; a boy (or maybe House) has given Wilson a radio-controlled toy car. There are colorful cards, a few bouquets of flowers, even a candle or two. It's a little rolling shrine full of warmth, fuzziness, and sympathetic words—everything House hates, except for the car. She hopes House won't wreck it, won't try to take the gifts away or poison their meaning somehow.    
  
All those virtual strangers love Wilson, but only once has she come in and found someone else at his side, and that was Chase. She knows perfectly well that House visits, because of the complaints from the nursing staff, but she has never caught him in the act and she's certain that's how House wants it. That's not what's so upsetting.  
  
The problem is that _no one_ knows where the hell Wilson's family is. She's called his parents, left messages which no one has answered. His brother said he's in the middle of a huge company project and can't leave California. No, he wasn't sure where his mom and dad had gone. He thought this might have been the month of their cruise down the Rhine. No, he didn't know when they'd be back; please tell James he said hello and is thinking of him, hoping for his quick recovery.    
  
_Sure he is_ , sniped a voice in her mind, _so he can stop feeling guilty.  
_  
She might even have called his ex-wives, if she had any numbers for them, but she does not. Wilson's cell phone was lost in the attack. When she asks House, he claims not to have that information either, although he almost certainly does. She's not sure whether to be frustrated or touched by his refusal to help her contact Wilson's exes. It's either selfish or it's loyal and protective. Of course, this being House, it's probably some bizarre combination of both.  
  
Wilson's starting to vaguely resemble himself again. He's still several shades of wrong colors, dark as an approaching storm, but the structure of his face is re-emerging as the swelling recedes. Also, one of the nurses has shaved him. The electric razor sits on the bedside table. That probably hurt a bit, and Wilson probably didn't care.    
  
She sits down in that awful chair, making a mental note to have it replaced with something softer. As gently as she can, she picks up Wilson's right hand. Before all this happened, she can't recall the last time she ever touched him. He's so injured now that his hand is the only part she dares to ... to _caress_ , she supposes is the word, though it seems strange to think of it that way. To think of James Wilson as someone who might want such a thing. Yet he has never pulled away from her when she does this. She strokes with her thumb, in a slow, easy rhythm.  
  
Wilson sighs in his sleep, curling his fingers around hers.    
  
He's never seemed to need anything before, not even when the earthquakes hit his own life and shook it apart. Either that or she was so busy trying to keep House alive and working that—no, that's a pointless thought. What matters is what she can do for Wilson now. Every day she has done this, taken his hand and tried to think of something. Every day she has failed.  
  
Now, all at once, she knows. The best thing she can do for Wilson is to take care of House.   
  


	16. Aftershocks5.4: Foreign Food

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** What a long, strange day it's been. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Cuddy, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
  
 **Foreign Food**  
  
  
She goes into her office, shuts the door and stands there for a few seconds with her hand resting flat against it.  
  
The door is wood, but what she feels is soft, warm fabric. The vibrations of a powerful, furious, desperate voice shouting at everything and everyone. Muscles straining as he does his best to get free from the men who hold him back. Struggling the way he would if he were fighting for his own life.   
  
She can feel that pounding heart, hammering away so hard and fast, as if to escape its constraints.    
  
House can lie about himself all he wants. His heart told her the truth.    
  
It's seven at night and the necessary meeting is finally over. Vera Ostler is officially Interim Head of Oncology. Cuddy realizes that she could officially not care less.    
  
Well, not right now. She'll care in the morning. At this moment, three minutes past seven, she cares that her feet hurt, her head hurts, her back hurts—and she keeps feeling the frantic pulse of House's heart beneath her hand. She cares that she missed lunch and that she's hungry.  
  
She looks around and decides against taking home the latest stack of paperwork. Not this time. This time, she'll simply leave and try not to think of a single damn thing until tomorrow. Even cooking dinner would be too much to cope with, seeing as it would mean having to shop for groceries. She'll zip out to the edge of campus and pick something up at Trang's instead. That'll be easy, and easy is good.  
  
Her plan works for approximately three minutes, which is how long it takes her to get to the parking garage and notice a certain orange motorcycle. House doesn't have a case, but he's still here. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
"You're not him," says House, the moment she steps into Wilson's office with dinner in hand. "And really—pretending to be _Wilson?_ That's just pathetic."  
  
"Shut up, House." Ideally she'd have some witty retort, but it's now quarter til eight and she is far too weary and hungry to be bothered. She sets the styrene box on the desk in front of him, popping open the top so that the aromatic steam can escape. "You're not him either, so why aren't you using your _own_ computer?"  
  
"I already _know_ everything _I've_ been up to. This is more fun."  
  
She slips out of her heels and feels the relieved stretch in her arches as she pads around the desk to see what House has found.    
  
" _Titanium_ rhinoplasty? That's ... weird."  
  
"So's Wilson," House quips, but he's serious about what he's reading. "Makes sense, though. It's inert, durable, already in wide medical use; why not? Could eliminate a lot of problems. Are these—?" he grabs one of the small spring rolls and inspects it carefully, his hopeful gaze alighting on the tiny plastic cup full of amber-colored sauce.  
  
" _Nem_ ," she confirms, smiling at him. "A special order. And I'm not telling you where they came from."  
  
"What, so you can use the secret to bribe me later? I don't care. As long as there are _more_ where these came from." Deftly he wraps the roll in the fresh leaves of lettuce and mint that most Americans would mistake for a mere garnish. Cuddy smiles, settling into Wilson's sofa with her own box of Vietnamese heaven.    
  
They eat in comfortable silence, and Cuddy realizes it's the first real respite she has had since Sunday afternoon. It's strange to think of House as a soothing, relaxing presence, but he is—at least for now.  
  
She watches House lean back, closing his eyes and savoring the _nem_ rolls with a curling smile of genuine, greedy pleasure. He's uncivilized; he lets flakes of crisp rice-paper fall from his mouth as he crunches blissfully away. He licks his fingers, drinks some of thefragrant _pho_ soup right from its flimsy paper bowl. The air fills with the scent of beef broth, fried vegetables, sweet basil and cilantro.   
  
There's something oddly rewarding about seeing House take what she has offered, allowing himself a little unabashed enjoyment. Until now, she has never understood why Wilson so often feeds him, but now she thinks she does. It _feels_ good. It's as simple as that.    
  
It's simple, but she'd missed it completely. She wonders, as she sips from her own bowl of soup, whether House himself has ever figured it out.    
  


	17. Aftershocks 6.1: Up and Around

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** On his feet for the first time in nearly a week. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House, OMC **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
  
 **Up and Around  
  
**  
"Morning, Doctor Wilson," the nurse chirps as he slides the door closed. The chirp is particularly odd, coming as it does from Jerry, who is built like a college linebacker. He had, in fact, _been_ a college linebacker—Wilson learned this the first time Jerry had single-handedly—although gently—hauled him from a gurney to his bed.  
  
"Hi, Zherr," Wilson greets him.  
  
Jerry steps up next to the bed and lowers the railing, helping Wilson into a sitting position. "You ready for this?" he asks as his big hands wrap around Wilson's calves to help his legs over the edge of the bed.  
  
Wilson breathes out in a heavy sigh. Already his back is protesting, and with the way his legs are dangling he can feel the knots of deep bruising on the backs of his thighs. But his catheter had come out a couple hours ago, and a trip to the bathroom is absolutely necessary. He glances around Jerry's bulk to the window. "C'dju...close 'e blines more?"  
  
Jerry nods and moves to comply, covering the door and blocking the hallway view completely. While he's doing it, Wilson resists the urge to natter nervously. He _knows_ he needs to get out of bed, but he hasn't moved under his own power since his crawl up the alley.   
  
As if he senses Wilson's tension, Jerry starts a one-sided conversation as he pulls the blinds closed. "I don't blame you for wanting these shut, Doctor. First time they got me up after my surgery, I didn't want _anybody_ to see me."  
  
"Hm?" Wilson asks, knowing that's all the encouragement Jerry will need to talk for a good half-hour. He's grateful for the distraction.  
  
Jerry steps close to Wilson's right side and keeps talking. "Got in a car accident, broke my pelvis. I couldn't wait to get back on my feet, but that first time I thought I'd buckle, or piss myself, or both. Took three nurses and an orderly to get me up." He leans down, tucking his shoulder under Wilson's armpit and drawing Wilson's right arm over his trunk of a neck. His left hand wraps around to Wilson's hip and he slowly pushes Wilson off the bed.  
  
He ignores Wilson's indrawn hiss of breath as they straighten to a stand. Instead, Jerry's hand hitches a bit lower, so Wilson could practically sit on his forearm.   
  
"'Course, Mom _insisted_ on being there," Jerry continues as Wilson leans into him. "My mom's not a crier, but she went fuckin' _nuts_ when she saw 'em haul me up. Talk about embarrassing, when they have to call somebody to sedate your mom."   
  
Wilson feels rather than hears Jerry's soft chuckle and tries to move his feet in something resembling a walk. His back and collarbone both protest; all the bruises he's been lying on have awakened to join the chorus. Fortunately, the rib plates seem to be doing their job and his ribs don't seem to mind (any more than usual) how he's panting with exertion.  
  
Jerry keeps talking about his accident and rehab as they slowly work their way toward the bathroom door. Every so often he breaks the flow of his story to interject encouraging comments to Wilson in a tone he undoubtedly learned on the football field, pushing Wilson to keep moving.  
  
By the time they reach the bathroom door, Wilson's knees and hips have loosened up a little and he's walking like a seventy-five-year-old instead of a ninety-year-old. Jerry doesn't quit talking, even when he undoes Wilson's gown and helps position him at the toilet, and Wilson is grateful again, this time for Jerry's good-humored professionalism.  
  
Wilson leans more heavily on Jerry on the way back to the bed. He likes leaning into Jerry's solid weight; the size of the nurse is somehow reassuring, sheltering. He's briefly surprised at how much a 20-foot round trip has taken out of him.   
  
Jerry practically lifts him back into bed. "Gonna need more of your own power next time, Doc," he says. "They want you down in physio soon, so tomorrow you gotta get out of bed yourself."  
  
"Thnks, Zherr," he murmurs as Jerry hooks him back up to the IVs. He clicks his PCA as soon as it's placed near his hand.  
  
"Rest up," Jerry replies softly before Wilson slips back to sleep. "I'll be back in a couple hours."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
House rounds the corner and stops abruptly when he sees the blinds covering the entire length of the glass wall to Wilson's room. For a moment he's frozen to the spot as his stomach flips forward and his heart skitters backward. Totally closed blinds could mean a number of things, a number of very _bad_ things; a medical _thing_ , a psychological _thing_ , a Martin-come-to-finish-him-off _thing_. For a moment House's mind is stuck on a loop, an earworm buzzing in his ear insisting Wilson's okay, House fixed it because he _paid_.  
  
He looks again and sees the faint outline of two figures rising to a stand next to the bed. The morning sun slants through the windows and casts them in silhouette, one slim and bowed, leaning on the hunched-over bear of the other. House's left leg threatens to buckle under him with relief as he recognizes what's going on, and he steps cautiously to the side to lean on a pillar.  
  
Jerry had been one of the few nurses who hadn't minded caring for House after the shooting, and he was one of two who House hadn't minded caring for him. His size and height made him the ideal candidate, so Jerry had been the one sent in to get him out of bed. When House swore a blue streak at him, Jerry had simply crossed the great hamhocks that passed for his arms and swore back, informing him in no uncertain terms that he _was_ going to walk if Jerry had to drag him. It was why House had pulled whatever on-Wilson's-behalf strings he had left to get Jerry in Wilson's room.  
  
The twin silhouettes move slowly at first, agonizingly slowly, as Wilson's first steps are more bent-over shuffling than anything else. House's face twists in empathetic pain as he watches his best friend hobble like an arthritic old man.   
  
He forces himself to watch the whole thing: the halting progress toward the bathroom, the wait as they disappear, the trip back to the bed that he knows feels twice as long. He doesn't allow himself to turn away as he sees Wilson's feet barely skimming the floor, nearly carried as he is by the big nurse. He finally turns away after Jerry lifts Wilson like a child into his bed.  
  
It's not right. It's where House belongs, in the hospital bed. Wilson should be the one who's whole, and healthy, and watching. House turns away and starts back toward the elevators. His morning visit will have to wait.  
 


	18. Aftershocks 6.2: Heartbreak Hotel

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** The place is utterly depressing. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Chase, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
  
 **Heartbreak Hotel**  
  
  
"You told them the truth," Chase says quietly in the otherwise-silent hotel elevator. It smells stale and dank, a miserable little crypt that's never seen sunlight. It's also considerably smaller than the hospital elevators; Chase is forced to stand closer to House than he'd prefer.  
  
House scowls down at him. "Yeah. So?"  
  
"You never tell the truth." For all his grumbling about lies, House uses them like conjunctions.  
  
House shrugs and taps the key card against his cane. The bell dings, the door opens, and House is down the hall before Chase leaves the elevator.  
  
He catches up to House as the lock beeps and he shoulders his way in. They step inside and the door falls shut behind them with a loud, heavy _thunk_.   
  
The room is neat, but in an odd straightened-up-by-strangers kind of way. The desk is littered with files and obviously hasn't been touched. The decor is bland and unassuming. The place is utterly depressing.  
  
Chase can't keep himself from blurting out, "Dr. Wilson _lives_ here?"   
  
House looks at him like he's a moron. It's not much different from how House looks at him every day. He points around the room with his cane and says, "Well, get to it."  
  
Chase raises his eyebrows and stares back at him. "That's awfully personal," he says. "He's your friend, not mine."  
  
"Why the hell do you think I brought you along?" House growls.  
  
Chase opens the closet and surveys the suits, in spite of his earlier protest. "I figured you wanted me to haul shit, not pack it up, too," he mutters. He pulls out a garment bag, lays it open on the bed, and starts feeding suits into it.  
  
"As usual, your powers of deduction suck," House mutters back. He's sitting at the desk, half-reading the files he's putting into a briefbag with more care than Chase would have thought him capable of.   
  
Chase empties first the closet and then the drawers of the nightstand and dresser. Apparently this is why House called him down to the lobby yesterday, but Chase had been waylaid by their patient crashing. Again. It hadn't helped that he and Foreman and Cameron had been on their own with this one—House hasn't exactly been _available_ the last couple days.   
  
Then again, his complaining about having to pack might have been premature. There's barely anything here—just some clothes, two pairs of shoes, a heavy overcoat. No books, no CDs, nothing truly personal anywhere. There's a kitchenette along one wall, but the refrigerator is empty and the cupboards hold only a few cheap pans. He starts to pull them out when House says, "Leave them. They're not his."  
  
When he reaches the bathroom, the full-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner and shaving lotion are all nearly empty. Dr. Wilson's been living here longer than he'd probably care to admit. Has he been here since he'd stayed with House _last year_?   
  
Chase doesn't have long to wonder about that, though, because at that moment House yells, "Hey, no pee breaks for you, peon! Let's go!"  
  
He doesn't bother rolling his eyes as he checks the bathroom over one last time. The bed is covered with Wilson's three suitcases; House has the briefbag slung over his shoulder, and he waves his cane at Chase.  
  
"C'mon," he says and heads for the door.  
  
Fortunately one of the bags is a rolling one, or Chase would never have been able to haul them all in one trip. In the elevator, he manages to maneuver the bags between himself and House.  
  
"So," Chase asks casually as they reach Wilson's car, "who's he staying with, once he's out?"  
  
House shoots him an odd look over the roof of the car before he pops the trunk. "With me."  
  
Chase feels his jaw start to drop and quickly shuts it. "And he agreed to this?"  
  
"Not yet."  
   


	19. Aftershocks 7.1: The Meeting

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Dr. Wilson isn't just any patient. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Cuddy, House, OMCs, OFCs **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
  
 **The Meeting  
  
**  
"Thanks for coming, Dr. Cuddy," Dr. Sandoval says with a smile as Cuddy sits down at the conference table. "I know it's unusual for you to sit in on patient-care meetings like this—"  
  
"But Dr. Wilson isn't just any patient, is he?" Cuddy answers, smiling back. "I appreciate the invitation." She gestures for Sandoval to continue.  
  
Since he's listed as Wilson's primary attending, he shuffles through Wilson's patient file. "The reason we're meeting today is because Dr. House—"  
  
"Oh, _God_ ," groans Dr. Birdsong.   
  
"—has requested that Dr. Wilson be released to his care," Sandoval finishes over the chorus of agreeing groans and long-suffering chuckles. He closes the file and looks through his thick rimless lenses at everyone else around the table. "Now we probably don't have much time before he crashes this meeting, so talk fast."  
  
Tomlinson, the orthopedic surgeon, speaks first. "While House has been _occasionally_ helpful—" she ignores the eyerolls this statement earns her, "—I don't think Dr. Wilson's injuries are healed enough for him to be out of the hospital."  
  
Birdsong leans forward and clasps his long-fingered hands together on the table. "His internal injuries are healing nicely, given the amount of fixing we had to do the night he came in." The general surgeon looks over at Cuddy. "I never thought I'd _hope_ for the day somebody came in here dying of Marburg fever, but that might be the only thing that gets House off our backs."  
  
Cuddy raises one eyebrow. "I know he's been following Dr. Wilson's care—"  
  
"He's _terrorizing_ everyone," Birdsong snorts.  
  
"Worse than usual?" Cuddy asks. She's heard reports, yes, but hasn't thought they were out of the ordinary.  
  
"We wired the wrong one's jaw shut," Birdsong grumbles.  
  
Carol McKay, the nursing supervisor, replies, "Much worse. My people all love Dr. Wilson, but..." She spreads her hands apologetically. "We had to put a lookout system in place, and half the floor clears out if he's spotted. The only nurse Dr. House seems to leave alone is Jerry Watson."  
  
So, much worse, then. Cuddy couldn't remember the nurses ever adopting a spy network to deal with House. Warnings he was coming, yes. Brownies, yes. Trading breaks and vacation time, even; but she's never seen any one of them _run_ from him.  
  
"How long would you normally recommend a patient with Dr. Wilson's injuries remain hospitalized?" Cuddy asks Sandoval. She knows what she'd recommend, but then, she's perhaps more conservative when it comes to one of her doctors.  
  
Sandoval adjusts his glasses. "Without Dr. House, I'd say two weeks, minimum. Depending on his mobility and if complications develop, maybe even three weeks."  
  
"We need to keep a close eye on his hand, if he ever wants to use it again," Tomlinson points out.  
  
"And how unreasonable _is_ Dr. House's request?" Cuddy is curious just how many of them want to release Wilson just because of House.  
  
Dr. Stone clears her throat. "Dr. Wilson's been through a horrific ordeal—"  
  
"No, you _think_?"   
  
Everyone but Cuddy jumps a little in their seats. She has too much experience with House to startle at his voice booming behind her.  
  
Stone presses on, "—and he has yet to discuss it."  
  
"Because his _jaw_ is _wired shut_! What do you want him to do, mime?" House shouts, waving his cane over their heads.   
  
Stone glares back at him. "He also hasn't scheduled any time, with anyone in Psych, to discuss it. He needs to talk about it. We don't think he's ready to be released."   
  
House snorts. "It must hurt, being the only woman in the hospital Wilson _doesn't_ want to see."  
  
Cuddy pinches the bridge of her nose and orders in her most authoritative voice, "House, sit down."  
  
Grudgingly, surprisingly, he complies, still glaring at Stone. He settles himself next to Cuddy.  
  
Sandoval again opens the file and starts talking, doing his best to ignore House's interruption. "His first PT sessions have gone well. We expect him to be moving under his own power by tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest. I'd be willing to release him once he's demonstrated some mobility."  
  
Tomlinson shakes her head. "The potential for complications is still—"  
  
"Do you honestly think he's better off _here_?" House cuts her off. He glowers at her, then sweeps his gaze around the room. "You all know I'll spot complications coming a hell of a lot earlier than anybody else."  
  
"Dr. Wilson will need more than your _watching_ him," Sandoval says coolly. "How do you plan on dealing with that?" His expression says clearly that he can't imagine how _House_ could physically care for anyone else, let alone someone as badly injured as Wilson.  
  
"I'm _lame_ , you idiot, I'm not quadriplegic." Everyone at the table scowls at him, and House grinds his teeth together before visibly mustering some calm. "I'm making arrangements. In fact," he says as he looks over at Nurse McKay, "I want Jerry Watson. Two hours a day."  
  
McKay shakes her head. "Oh, no. I have five departments fighting over Jerry every week. It was hard enough to get him for Dr. Wilson now." She holds up a hand to forestall House's interruption. "I pulled in some favors, just like you did, Dr. House, and I was willing to do it because it was Dr. Wilson. But Jerry's not a home-health nurse, and I don't think you can outbid five other departments."  
  
House opens his mouth to undoubtedly say something scathing, and Cuddy reaches over to lay one hand on House's wrist, prompting him to take a deep breath and nod. "Okay. So I'll get somebody else. I've got a call in to Reliant Health. Does that satisfy you?" he asks Sandoval.  
  
Sandoval nods and is about to speak when Birdsong says, "I still don't get why you want Dr. Wilson out of here so badly. I mean—"  
  
"You've never been a patient, have you?" House's voice is unusually quiet, but his tone is cutting. "Never been sedated in front of your staff, never been helpless in front of your colleagues, never had to rely on a complete stranger wiping your ass?" Cuddy squeezes House's wrist and he falls silent. Birdsong shifts uncomfortably in his chair and adjusts his tie.   
  
House looks again at everyone around the table before levering himself to his feet and pulling open the door. "Wilson deserves his privacy and his dignity. He doesn't get that here."  
  
There's a long silence after the door falls closed behind House.   
  
After a moment, Cuddy stands up, her palms on the table. "Well, now we know why House made the request. Has anyone actually talked to Wilson about this? What does _he_ want?"  
  
Everyone suddenly finds the table surface fascinating as Cuddy is met with silence.  
  
"That's what I thought," Cuddy says quietly. More loudly, she announces, "I think House has a very good point, and I'd be inclined to grant his request. But it's not his decision to make, or ours. I'll talk to Dr. Wilson myself."  
  
She ignores the looks of relief around the table. Releasing Wilson was one thing, but no one wanted to be the one to tell him that he was going home with _House_ —Cuddy is sure they all believe that to be a fate almost as bad as the one that's already befallen him.  
  
As she pulls open the door, she only hopes she gets to Wilson before House does.  
 


	20. Aftershocks 7.2: Unilateral

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** A decision has been made. Time to tell Wilson. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
  
 **Unilateral**  
  
  
"Afternoon, sunshine," House lets his voice precede him as the door slides open.  
  
Wilson raises one eyebrow in greeting—it's almost 4:00, after all. He lifts the remote off the bed and switches from a bland decorating show to ABC.  
  
House doesn't flop into his usual chair, and he's brought no snacks for taunting. He doubts Wilson's going to want him to stick around after the news he's bringing. Then again, it's a good thing he didn't stick around for the end of that damn meeting. As soon as it's over Cuddy will be in here asking Wilson what _he_ wants to do, and that's ridiculous because everybody knows patients are idiots. He paces the width of the room before returning to the end of the bed and stopping.  
  
Wilson simply waits as the music for _General Hospital_ starts quietly in the background.  
  
House scratches at an eyebrow and picks up the chart that's hanging on the end of the bed. He flips it open and tries for offhanded when he says, "First PT session went well, yeah?"  
  
Wilson harrumphs through his bandaged nose and reaches for his water bottle.  
  
"Great." House flips the file closed and drops it back on the footboard. "Looks like you'll be free by Wednesday."  
  
Wilson sputters a little and looks up with something resembling consternation, accompanied by a side order of irritation.  
  
"That's right," House says cheerfully. "Released, escaped, vamoosed. You can get the hell out of this fishbowl." He waves his cane at the blind-covered glass wall. "No more ogling by random passers-by, no more late-night visits from Nurse Bertha, no more _Camer_ —"  
  
"Housh. Point."  
  
House answers Wilson's glare with a grin. "You'll be staying with me."  
  
The water bottle lands on the table with a hard _thunk_.   
  
"I checked you out of that damned hotel and Chase moved your stuff to my place yesterday. Don't worry, I didn't let him drive your car."  
  
He can see Wilson's right hand flexing. By the look in his eyes, Wilson's looking like he's wishing he had two good hands to wrap around his neck. House decides to beat a retreat.  
  
Just before he slips out the door, House turns back and adds, "And don't worry about sleeping on the sofa. I've taken care of it."  
  
House knows there's too much to make up for; atonement is impossible but he's got to _try_. House smiles down at the floor as he walks, remembering Wilson, standing over his bed after the infarction and threatening to smother him with his own pillow.   
  
Wilson doesn't know it yet, but it's _his turn_. House is going to help him, whether he likes it or not.  
  


	21. Aftershock 10.1: Homecoming

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** There's no way he's walking out of here and no way he's letting House drive the wheelchair. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House, OMC **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
  
  
 **Homecoming**  
  
  
Wilson is silent throughout the discharge procedure. He only half-listens to Cameron's voice as she explains the instructions in the discharge folder—PT, prescriptions, what he can and can't consume once he's out. _Consume_ , he nearly snorts at that, because he won't actually be _eating_ anything for a long while yet. She doesn't ask him to sign anything; apparently she managed to get House to do the paperwork. Wonders never cease.  
  
House shows up at the door just as Cameron says, "Dr. Wilson, you could stay. You _should_ stay a few more days, at least. You don't have to—"  
  
Wilson clears his throat to interrupt her. House, surprisingly, stays silent, and Cameron remains unaware of his presence.  
  
Wilson says, quietly, "Cam'rn. 'M leav'n." He meets her eyes, briefly, before taking the folder from her and setting it on the bed. "Anks," he says and dismisses her with a gesture of his good hand.  
  
Cameron doesn't budge. "But," she sputters a little, looking nonplussed. "But, _why_?"  
  
At this, House finally steps into the room. "Because I bribed him," he announces. "And you just can't compete with her cleavage." House's gaze disdainfully sweeps to Cameron's chest and back up to her face.  
  
Cameron gasps angrily. She looks _this close_ to stomping her foot, too, but House just growls, "Your job here is done. Go make yourself busy somewhere that's _else_."  
  
She snorts a very unladylike snort as she turns to leave the room.  
  
House huffs out a happy sigh once she's gone, and turns back to Wilson. " _Finally_ ," he says dramatically. "You ready?"  
  
Wilson's irritation with Cameron turns into a glare for House. He's ready to leave, yes. House was right; the place is a fishbowl, and he's the fish. He's not sure he's ready to go to _House's_ place, but what choice does he have? He's pretty fucking useless now, as it is, and he just doesn't have the energy to arrange for care anywhere else, to undo House's latest executive decision. For the past three days, he's existed in a pattern of visits and silences; eventually he decided he'd far rather deal with House's silences than visits from anyone else. At least House's apartment feels something like safe.   
  
Wilson leans over a little and presses the call button on the bed; there's no way he's walking out of here and no way he's letting House drive the wheelchair.  
  
House fidgets his way around the room, churning out gossip like a pepper mill, apparently hoping his chatter will somehow drown out Wilson's fury. He shuts up when Jerry, wheelchair in his wake, opens the door.  
  
"Time to go, eh, Doc?" Jerry asks as he slides the wheelchair next to the bed.  
  
"Mmmm," Wilson half-grunts in reply. Jerry doesn't move to help; he simply stands ready, waiting to assist if Wilson needs it to get from the bed to the chair. House is still, too, watching as Wilson creakily unfolds himself from his seat on the bed and refolds into the chair. Wilson feels like an old dollar bill that's been used for an origami project.  
  
"Damn, Doc," Jerry says as he settles into the chair. "Lookin' better on your feet every day."  
  
House stays silent for the entire trip to the car, the only indication he's behind them a ghostly shuffle-tap on the tiles. Wilson hears the Volvo's doors unlock before they reach the car. Underneath his anger that House has _also_ appropriated his car he's silently grateful that House didn't bring the Corvette.  
  
He turns out to need Jerry's help to get into the car; with his left arm strapped against his chest he can't seem to fold himself the right way to get in the seat. By the time he's finally settled enough, House is in the driver's seat and watching expectantly. He has the car in gear almost before Jerry closes the door, and Wilson can see he's resisting the urge to try and get the Volvo to peel out of the lot.  
  
Getting out of the car at House's apartment is worse than getting in, and not just because Jerry's solid mass isn't there to lift him out. Getting in was mostly a controlled fall; getting out is a painful climb, especially with just one arm. Wilson manages to get halfway out when he feels himself tip back toward the seat as his strength starts to give, and suddenly he's pulled forward onto his feet. He's surprised at how steady he's standing, given the pain spiking through his torso, when he realizes his good shoulder is snugged against House's chest.  
  
"Good?" House rumbles in his ear.  
  
He ducks his head in a small nod, and House steps slightly away. Together they gimp the ten feet across the sidewalk and up the step-and-a-half into the building, Wilson leaning on House leaning on his cane.  
  
Wilson isn't sure what he'll see when House opens the apartment door, but he decides he doesn't care so long as it's something soft and easy to fall into. He's focused on the floor as they first step into the apartment, and he doesn't look up until he hears House close the door behind them.  
  
The living room looks...like a child decided to mix her 'House' dollhouse with her 'hospital' doll furniture. The armchair and two tables are gone, the sofa cozying up to the piano in order to make room for a big hospital bed near the kitchen door. The TV has been moved from its low stand to perch on a highboy dresser at a perfect viewing angle to the bed. A shiny enameled-steel blender winks from the kitchen island, a lighthouse in the wasteland of House's kitchen. The shower chair that Wilson bought for House after the infarction stands folded against the closet door, and two IV poles stand sentinel next to it. Three red medical bags, filled with who-knows-what, are lined along the hallway wall. Wilson's suitcases lie open on the desk so he can reach his clothes without bending to the floor.  
  
"Goddammit," House mutters from behind him.  
  
Wilson's already moving toward the bed. "Mmmm?" he murmurs, trusting House to understand his question.  
  
"They put the bed in the wrong place," House replies as he follows along behind Wilson. "Supposed to be over there, so you can reach the end table." Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson sees the tip of House's cane indicate the other side of the room, near the piano.  
  
Wilson can't help himself; he lets out an almost-contented, groaning sigh as he sits on the bed. Without comment, House bends and helps him swing his legs up onto the bed. He sighs again as he leans back and lets his muscles release his weight into the mattress.  
  
"M've it later," Wilson mutters.  
  
"Yeah," House answers. He maneuvers around the bed to fall into the couch, and lets out a sigh of his own as he settles his feet on the coffee table. "Give me a pain rating."  
  
"Go to hell," Wilson says softly. He's wanted to say that for years.  
  
House chuckles. "Fair enough. I'll get your meds in a minute."  
  
Wilson feels himself relax and begin to drift into a doze, barely aware of the television flickering to life. He's home, at last.  
 


	22. Aftershocks 10.2: Nightfall

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** It's not supposed to be this quiet with Wilson around. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
**Nightfall**

 

While House has eaten, done dishes (no sense fighting over it now), and played _Grand Theft Auto_ , Wilson has slept.

He has slept right through _South Park_ and _Reno 911!_. Neither show is as funny as House remembers. Not once does he laugh. He had thought that he'd feel a lot better once Wilson was here and safe, but everything still seems all wrong.

_Of course it's all wrong, Einstein. Got any more astute observations?_

It's almost ten, television is crap, and Wilson hasn't had any dinner. The hospital provided packets of some kind of Powdered Food Substance, but House thinks that can wait for morning. Somehow he can't abide the thought of running the blender, shredding the quiet atmosphere of the apartment. He gimps off to the fridge, yanks open the door and pulls out a beer for himself and a can of Ensure for Wilson. _Ensure: Nectar of the geriatric ward._  

It could've been worse. As bad as this is, it could have been _so_ much worse. Those visions he'd had in that alley could well have come true. A few weeks of Ensure is nothing compared to a lifetime of Depends. It's nothing.

_He could've died._  

House stands over the bed, the head of which is raised at a gentle angle so that Wilson's ruined nose won't swell and prevent him from breathing. It helps with watching TV, too—or it will help tomorrow, when Wilson's awake again. The journey home took a toll on him.

Now the question is: How does one wake a sleeping, mutilated, heavily drugged Wilson? Under normal circumstances he'd jolt Wilson awake with an abrupt exclamation, or prod him with the cane, or grab his shoulder and shake it. 

"Wilson?" 

No response. House raises his voice a little and tries again.

"Wilson. Come on. I fixed ... I brought ... " He drops back into quiet tones without meaning to. "Come on, Wilson. Wake up." 

The building pressure in House's chest is completely irrational. Wilson's just conked out on opiates; he's always been a heavy sleeper anyway. It's nothing to worry about, except that badly injured bodies _can_ develop clots. Sometimes people do have strokes in their sleep.

House turns back to the coffee table, where he sets down the beer and the can of liquid pablum. He rubs his hand briskly against his leg, drying the condensation from it and warming the skin. He's crazy. It shouldn't matter if his fingers are cold. It never would've mattered before.

He starts to reach for Wilson's arm, but his hand won't obey. For a moment he doesn't know why, and then he realizes that he's picturing what must have happened that day. There'd been five men—five _animals_. Wilson might not know whose hand this is. He might lash out in blind panic, the way he did when he broke that EMT's nose. That would be no big deal, but Wilson's got too many broken bones, too many stitches and staples holding him together. 

_Okay. Eliminate anything the thugs might have done to him. No yelling. No grabbing or shaking. What's that leave?_

_It leaves ... oh. Well, that's ... oh._ He takes a deep breath. _Well. What the hell._

Moving forward, he reaches out again, turns his palm inward and strokes the back of his hand across Wilson's cheek. What does it matter, really? He's already given Wilson a shave, for crying out loud. He repeats the soft motion, his fingers light and warm on Wilson's bruised skin.

Wilson's eyes finally open, blinking in bleary confusion, darting sideways to identify the source of the touch. There's such uncertainty there, in the way those eyes widen as Wilson realizes that yes, that's the hand of his bastard best friend. There's such simple beauty in the fact that Wilson is alive, conscious, and recognizes him. 

House turns away, picks up the Ensure, shakes the can and pops it open. Without a word he takes the package of straws from the coffee table, picks one and drops it into the drink. As soon as Wilson takes it, House swiftly limps out of the room, leaving his beer untouched. He has to pee. He needs a shower. He needs to be in the bathroom where Wilson can't see him. He needs to stand there beneath the hot spray of water, remembering how to breathe.

He needs to be where there's water all around him and he won't even have to know it if he cries.  
 

 


	23. Aftershocks 11.1: Carla Jean Fowler

  
**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Dear God in heaven, make it stop. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, OFC, House. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
****  
Carla Jean Fowler** **

****

 

****She shows up right in the middle of _The Rockford Files_. She's tall, roundish and solid, and she must spend an hour each morning with Aqua-Net and a curling iron. Her hair is a careful, puffy sculpture, yet she has neglected her dye job. The brassy orange color stops an inch away from her head, so that the brightness seems to float above a band of dull brown.

Wilson listens to her just enough to gather that she thinks he was in a car crash. The agency must not have told her about the attack, and he's damn sure not going to do it.  
  
"Ooohhhkayyy. Now let me have this arm and _up_ we go. Ready? Good," she intones, and he wonders whether, if he's a very good boy, she'll read him a bedtime story when they're done. He's not going to make any cracks about that, though, because—God help him—she might do it. This woman has been jabbering nonstop since the moment she tromped through the door. He's been trying to tell her that he can do this _all by himself_ , but his jaw is wired shut and hers is not. If ever Wilson needed evidence for the cruelty of the universe, this is it.  
  
Her hands are large and cold on his skin. He winces, feels the gooseflesh raise all over his body, and forces himself to take several sharp breaths. Getting out of bed on his own is a slow and painful process, but he had to demonstrate the ability to do it before they'd let him out of the hospital. He really doesn't need assistance, especially not from pudgy, pushy strangers with annoying accents. Tomorrow—and the pain be damned—he'll make sure to be up _before_ she arrives.  
  
"That's right, now, you just breathe and hold tight onto Carla. You know, my Billy got so sick that one winter, back in ninety-two it was, after he fell off that bike of his and cracked a couple ribs. He didn't breathe deep enough and he got the pneumonia and for the longest time we had to walk like this. Oh, now would you look at that," she clucks, petting the hair that's standing upright on his arm. "Are you cold, Mister Williams?"  
  
He tries to jerk away from her, but the twisting motion sends electric jolts of pain up and down his back. It's the chipped vertebrae saying hello.  
  
"Doctor. Wilson." He enunciates the words as forcefully as he can, and in her surprise she lets go of him. He dodges away; it's hardly the graceful kind of escape he's used to making, but it works. He can make it the rest of the way to the bathroom quite well, thank you. Once inside, he locks the doorknob, which rattles slightly under his unsteady fingers.  
  
She's still yammering when he opens the door again. "—and I remember because it was the year we went to Florida. He has brown eyes just like yours, my Billy does, and when he hurts I just always know. Now which drink do you mix your oxycodone into, sweetie?"  
  
"Jus' pick one, 'kay? Sh'prise me."  
  
While she flaps off into the kitchen, he takes the opportunity to get back into bed. He's cold, he's _so_ cold and he's barely dressed, flopping around in a loose pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt. All he wants are his blankets. He's almost safe, but lifting his legs up onto the mattress is a tricky maneuver. His abdominal muscles are badly damaged from the abuse and the surgery. He pulls his left leg onto the bed, then gasps and doubles over as those muscles twitch and spasm, forcing him to stop. The next thing he knows, she's back, setting down his cup of medicine-juice with a campy little flourish. Then her clammy hand constricts his right ankle, pulling it up from the floor and onto the bed.  
  
Her fingers feel like shackles. If he doesn't curse or kick at her, it's only because the cramps have rendered him temporarily helpless. She lets go, but he still has to sit there, bent forward and with his back in agony while he waits for the muscle spasms to ease off.

The moment he's able, he eases back against the mattress, grateful that the raised head of the bed means he hasn't got far to go. He stretches out his good hand to pull his blessed blankets over his body. Their warmth and their scent is so welcome. The first, the one he keeps against his skin, is made of a cream colored velour that caresses him every time he moves. Over that there's House's quilt, a blue and white pattern of six-pointed stars, almost like the Star of David. It's made of old cotton calico, so well worn that it feels like the very softest flannel. It's a little heavy and Wilson likes that feeling too. He draws both blankets up over his chest, clutching at their edges, hiding the trembling in his hand.  
  
"'M'really hungry," he says, although right now food is the last thing on his mind. "Thin' you c'd use eh blenner?"  
  
She's thrilled to, naturally. That poor son of hers must be seriously screwed up. He's either in jail or he sells 'pre-owned' Toyotas—Wilson would bet on it. No, actually, he wouldn't. He wouldn't bet on anything, but he wonders if little Billy is a weekend drag queen. Gripping the edge of the quilt a little tighter, Wilson hopes to God that it'll be enough to keep her _off_ him. He has to force himself to let go long enough to drink his oxycodone punch.  
  
Too soon, Carla brings the cup of sludge that passes for his lunch. When he reaches to take it, she grabs his wrist. He jerks so hard that she almost loses her balance, but he's so blinded by the pain that he doesn't even notice. The sooner that oxy kicks in, the better.  
  
"Aren't you the nervous one? I'll remember that you startle easy. Now let's get that pulse," she insists, and he stiffens and holds his breath while she does it. There's one of those tacky multicolored family birthstone rings on her hand. The gems are red, blue, and pink, like flavors of Jello. For a moment his brain asks whether she removes the godawful thing before she puts on latex gloves. Then her voice, which reminds him of a particularly talkative parrot, scatters those thoughts. "Oh, that's _way_ too high. About a hundred fifteen."  
  
"Hurt w'en I _jumped_ ," he growls at her, but she seems to credit the physical pain and the wires for the way he sounds. "Betta inna minute." _As soon as you get the hell away from me_. "Trus' me. 'M a doctor."

He's nicer than this, isn't he? He wants to be nicer; he thought he wasn't the kind of guy who had mean, spiteful thoughts about the sons of cheerfully smothering women. That's House's gig, and he truly wishes House were here to say all these things so that he could stop thinking them.

If Wilson had a cane, he thinks he would hit her with it. Purely in self-defense, of course. He might hate himself for doing it, but he'd do it all the same.  


* * *

  
  
By the time she leaves, his show is over and the whole apartment seems to reek of hairspray and mint gum. He lies back, pulls the blankets up over his face, and wills the universe itself to go away.  


* * *

The noise of afternoon cartoons is drifting faintly right through the door. It makes House smile for a moment; Wilson has such dubious taste in television. Also, the sound means that Wilson's actually awake today.

Already they've established certain rules without ever having talked about them. One is: _Don't startle the guy who's got broken bones and PTSD. Announce yourself as you come in the door._

"Hey Luuuucy, I'm ho-ome," House chimes, as he hangs his jacket on its hook. He doesn't expect a response, but he's surprised to turn around and not see Wilson at all.

_Oh_.

Actually, he does see Wilson, but what he sees makes his knees feel like Silly Putty. He sees the shape of a body, with the blankets drawn up entirely over its head, as if—but no. The body is breathing; he's sure he saw it breathe.

Quietly he approaches, and the motion of breathing becomes more obvious, but his mind is running away with him. On the tray table there's an empty juice cup and a tumbler full of some kind of rose-colored sludge. That must have been Wilson's lunch, but it hasn't been touched. Oxycodone but no food? It's no wonder he's out cold.

Something's wrong, House thinks. Wilson should have eaten. He's always, _always_ hungry these days.

_Are you sure that's Wilson?_ asks a crazy voice in House's mind. For all he knows, Wilson might be lying dead in the bathroom and it could be Martin in the bed, waiting. He rubs his hand across his face, berating himself for having such a completely stupid thought. It's hard to help that, though. He's had so many damn nightmares lately, and after all this is _Martin_ they're dealing with. It's ridiculous, but ...

Carefully, he creeps up behind the bed and lifts the blankets just enough to see a familiar bit of brown hair. It shines softly in the dim light of the living room, and House bites back the urge to touch it and feel the texture—to make sure that what he's seeing is real. He replaces the covers and picks up the tumbler full of liquid Wilson Chow. This must have been the "fruit-flavored" packet he'd avoided using for Wilson's breakfast this morning, favoring the "vanilla" powder instead. It's pink as bubble gum, and smells interestingly weird, so he sips a little through the straw.

_Weird_ is an understatement. House's face scrunches up as the stuff spreads across his tongue. It tastes like ... a combination of milk, chalk, pancake syrup, and ... strawberry Kool-Aid. The worthless home-care droid didn't even bother to add one of the bananas that House left on the counter. He has tasted worse things, but not since his last bout of nausea. For Wilson—he of the magical cooking skills—this is the ultimate addition of insult to injury.

House scrubs his hand over his face again. He's been meaning to go and get food for a while now, and putting it off because ... he supposes because there could've been so many complications. Wilson might so easily have been kept in the hospital longer than they'd expected. He might even have demanded another place to stay; hell, he _still_ might do that. Wouldn't be the first time.

It occurs to House that his chances will probably improve as soon as the food improves. Already he has plenty of recipes, if you can call them that. He pops two Vicodin, heaves a heavy sigh and picks up the keys to his old car. He'll need it. Can't haul groceries on the bike.

He walks back out the door, leaving the television on. Scooby and the gang will have to watch over Wilson for now. As he turns the key to lock Wilson inside, he can hear a distant _**Ruh** -roh! _from the TV.

It's stupid, but it's all he can do to turn away and leave.  
 

 


	24. Aftershocks 12.1: Catch and Release

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Something's fishy. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, OFC, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
****Catch and Release** **

******  
**If House had been really smart, he'd have just called in today and stayed home where he could observe more closely. He doesn't have enough evidence to logically support his theory. Hell, he hardly even _has_ a theory. What he has is a restless sense that _something_ —other than all the obvious somethings—is the matter with Wilson, and has been since yesterday afternoon.  
  
Through the morning he has sat at his desk, drinking coffee and pretending to work. Well, not really pretending to work. It's more like he has been pretending to _not_ work in the same way that he usually doesn't work when it's Friday and he has no new case. He's been playing the usual games on his computer, and tossing that weird fuzzy ball around in the usual ways, while trying to make sense of a rather unusual problem.

Individually, each of the things that he's noticed is easily explained. Wilson didn't eat lunch yesterday? Understandable, considering how gross that fruit-sludge was. Blankets pulled up over his head like a little kid? It's not like you can blame the guy if he wants to hide out for a while. That extra dose of oxycodone Wilson needed last night? House knows all about the unpredictable nature of pain. 

Yet despite all these rational explanations, House thinks—he _knows_ —that there's something wrong. It's something new, and Wilson isn't talking about it because he's Wilson and he hides everything important. He could amputate his own foot in a lawnmower accident, and he'd want to just get a prosthesis and tell everyone he sprained his ankle. House could simply ask what's going on, but experience tells him that Wilson would lie.   
   
Whatever is bothering him, it's so subtle he can't quite see it. It's like trying to follow the shadowy movements of fish beneath the surface of a dark pond. Some of the shapes might be real, some imaginary or simply bits of his own reflection. He has to know, and the only way to know is to throw in a net and see what he can catch. That would be so much easier if he were home.

He leans back in his chair and checks his watch _. How can it only be noon? Will this day never end?_ At least it's time to get lunch, which will alleviate a fraction of the boredom for, oh, ten minutes or so. Meanwhile, he will continue to _not know_ what's wrong. 

House decides he has two options, and the first one doesn't count. He gets up and shuts off his computer.

 

* * *

"House!"

_Great_. He'd been hoping Cuddy would be somewhere else, eating lunch the way normal people do at this hour. 

"Sorry! Can't chat. Got a two o'clock flight to Istanbul." He doesn't turn around as he rushes past her. He's got his backpack on and his keys in hand; no way is she going to stop him.    
  
"I'm clipping your wings. You haven't got a case, and you _have_ got hours to put in. Clinic. Now."

"Clinic: _No_. My _case_ is your head of Oncology. Get Johnston to coddle the sniffling masses." He doesn't stop moving and she doesn't stop following. "Get Cameron; she loves that crap. With any luck she'll find a guy who's both cute _and_ terminal, and she'll stop pestering _me_."

By then they're at the elevator and there's no escaping Cuddy, but at least she has to stand close to him in there. It's good to be tall, and to stand beside a short woman with a low cut blouse and a gorgeous set of—

"You are _not_ going home to take care of Wilson," she says, pulling her jacket closed, maliciously destroying the view. "He's got a visiting nurse. He doesn't need you."

"But _you do!_ " House crows. He tips back his head and presses a hand over his heart. " _Oh_ , I thought you'd _never_ confess!"

She stops the elevator, but she's not as angry as he had expected. Sadly, she doesn't seem aroused either.

"House, here's a novel idea. Tell me the _truth_."

Suddenly, he's just too tired to keep evading her. It takes too much effort. She's waiting, and she's not going to leave him alone until he explains.  
  
"Something's wrong with him."   
  
"No kidding," she replies, but House sees her turn a little pale.  
  
" _Other_ than that. He's—it's probably not serious, and I need to make sure it _stays_ not serious."  
  
"You're paranoid, House," she sighs, running a hand through that lovely thick hair of hers. "You're going to drive him crazy. Don't make a puzzle where there isn't one."

"Yeah," he replies, hitting the button to start the elevator again. "That's what you said when I told you that two sick babies meant we had an epidemic. I was paranoid. I was bored. I was borrowing trouble. _I was right_. Care to take that gamble with Wilson? 'Cause I don't."

"Why do you think—"

"He's off his feed and—just trust me, okay? If it's serious, you'll be the first to know. Well, all right, the _third_.  Does that work for you?" The doors of the elevator open and he starts moving before she can answer. He knows he's won this round, and he doesn't have time to waste.   


* * *

Today, what House hears through the apartment door sounds somewhat like a talkative bird. He calls out Wilson's name as he enters the apartment, and this time there's a definite response.

" _Howwwsh_." Wilson's sitting up on the bed. He can't turn around, but the sidelong look he gives House says it all. "Glad yer here," he adds, and inhales in a way that suggests he's been holding his breath for a while. He must be glad indeed, if he's saying so. That's totally against their rules.

There's a tall, pudgy Amazon creature standing at Wilson's bedside. Her meaty hands are planted on her hips, putting creases in her pink uniform. She's so focused on her prey that she hardly notices House's arrival. She follows Wilson's gaze and seems startled at the contrast between her patient and his ... roommate. House can see her gears turning as she tries to assess the nature of this relationship. He could have _such_ fun messing with her, but he has more pressing concerns.

"Carla Jean Fowler," she says, marching up to him with an outstretched hand, which drops when she sees his own right hand on the cane. "I'm—"

"The evil minion of Reliant Health Services."

"—his nurse."

"That's what I said. By all means, carry on with your evil minion duties. I'm gonna get a beer. TGIF and all that rot."  He turns toward the kitchen and immediately the nurse starts yammering on at Wilson.

"—this, because you of all people should know about hygiene. You don't have anything I haven't seen a thousand times. No need to be bashful about it."

House feels as if someone just dropped several ice cubes down his back. His feet stop moving of their own accord. He turns to watch the scene unfolding in the living room.

"Don' need it," says Wilson, jerking painfully away from the meaty hand that she has laid on his arm. "I'll do't m'self, jus'—"

" _Hey!_ Nurse Ratched!" House snaps. She faces him with her eyes all wide and innocent.

"Excuse me, Mister—?"

" _Doctor_ House," he corrects. "Are you trying to give _Doctor_ Wilson a _bath?_ " House is rapidly moving back into the living room. Got to get between Wilson and the enemy.

"Well, in the _shower_ , you know, with a cloth and basin. It's just the routine like that. His mobility's so poor he just can't reach everything. But Doctor Wilson's being all stubborn," she says, turning back to Wilson. "It's perfectly normal for patients with these kinds of injuries to—"

"—want a sponge bath from a _hot young babe_. Which you are _not_ , in case you haven't noticed." She gawps like a fish as he stumps around Wilson's bed and stops beside her, forcing her to look up at him. "Just how long _did_ you work at the nursing home?"

"Fifteen years," she replies, lifting her chin like she's a proud veteran of battle. "Wait, now, how did you—"

"There's a characteristic disregard for human dignity. Get out." He points his cane at the door, watching her mouth drop open again. "Got a hearing problem? _Out_. If you have a bag, _gather it_. I'll take it from here."

He sits down on the edge of the bed, very close to Wilson, who has already managed to get his legs back onto the mattress and has pulled the covers over himself. House keeps his fierce gaze upon Carla as she picks up her kit and her big quilted purse and huffs her way out the door. The last thing he sees of her is a pitying glance directed at _poor Doctor Wilson_.  
  
Once she's gone, House starts to get up to lock the door behind her. That's when he realizes that Wilson has grabbed onto his sleeve.

"Hey," he says, "you gonna let me bar the gates?"

Wilson's eyes are squeezed shut, and he's breathing harder than he should be. "Meds," he groans. There's already a familiar, empty cup on the bedside table.

"Didn't she give them to you?" 

"Mm. Yeah. But—"  Wilson's hand tugs at his sleeve. "Gimme y'arm. See," he says, and abruptly grips House's wrist, "gotta he'p ya get up."

"Uh huh," House says, glancing upward. "Looks like you didn't actually _damage_ my ceiling. When you hit it."

Wilson's pale face and shallow breaths are all the answer House needs. "Morphine?" he asks quietly, and Wilson lets go of his wrist so he can get it. Wilson's standard medication is liquid oxycodone, but he's got a morphine scrip as a backup. _In case of attack by nursing staff, take 8 mg by mouth_. It's an oral solution, a small blessing; no needle is required. House wonders why he never thought of that for himself, as he hobbles over and locks the door at last. All dangers are certainly past by now, but Cuddy was partly right: he's paranoid.

In the kitchen, he chooses pomegranate juice to mix with Wilson's dose. In his previous distraction, he didn't notice that the ingredients for Wilson's lunch were still sitting on the counter. The blender stands empty and clean. Once again Wilson has missed a meal. House stops at four milligrams of morphine; given the lack of food and the oxycodone Wilson's already taken, that should be enough to do the trick. Lunch can wait. It's pointless to try and eat when you're hurting bad enough to need morphine. House would know.

"So," he says, as he hands over the spiked juice, "You didn't tell me you were starving to death. Taking up anorexia as a hobby? Or is this a hunger strike because I wouldn't let you watch _Survivor_ last night?"

"I'll eat. Jus'—not righ' now, 'kay?"  Wilson's sipping down that juice with impressive speed.

"You don't have to. I mean, hey, you could always just take more drugs. Join the Junkie Doctors Club, get a cool hat and a secret decoder ring. The dues are a bitch, though. I can't recommend it." Of course it's not Wilson's fault he didn't get anything to eat, but where's the fun in admitting that?  
  
"I'll try," sighs Wilson, and drains the very last of his drink. "Mebbe now't she'sh gone—you make sumthin'. I'll try."

"Not until your meds kick in, you won't,"  House grumbles, and sits down on the sofa. "You just don't know the joy of pain-induced nausea."

"Yeah,"  Wilson replies.  "Akshully, I do."  
  
There is absolutely nothing that House can say to that.  
  
They've got the weekend ahead of them now, and House will be right here. By Monday, Wilson should be doing a little better. He shouldn't really need these midday visits, and if he does, House will send one of his team. There will be no more Carla, no more strangers of any kind putting their sticky paws on Wilson. Reliant Health Services can go straight to hell.

He'll call and tell them so, just as soon as Wilson's sleeping.  
 

 


	25. Aftershocks 13.1: Rude Awakening

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Oh, how I hate to wake up in the mornin'...  
 **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

  
**Rude Awakening**

 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like more champagne?"

Yesica Toscanini smiles. It's a smoldering, sultry smile, just like the picture in the _Sports Illustrated_ swimsuit issue, and Wilson can't help but smile back.

"You're too kind," she murmurs in her liquid Argentine accent, and Wilson glances down modestly. The summer meadow is sun-dappled, green and glowing in the slanting light. Birds are calling, a soft breeze stirs Yesica's long dark hair, and the champagne (Veuve Clicquot, with the familiar orange label) is perfectly chilled. He tips a little more of the bright, bubbling wine into her tall crystal flute. A bee buzzes at his ear, and he slaps at it absently.

Yesica plucks a strawberry from the flute and licks it, slowly.

The bee comes back, more loudly than before, and Wilson slaps at it again.

"Oh, _James,"_ Yesica breathes. The strawberry is now covered in melted dark chocolate, which she sucks off the fruit's skin. Slowly.

The buzzing gets louder, and Wilson frowns a little. It's a weird, metallic sound, as if the pristine meadow harbors cybernetic robot bees.

"Does this sound like an open A to you?" Yesica asks.

Wilson blinks at her. "What?"

Yesica pouts. "I said, Mr. Williams, does this sound like an open A?"

And suddenly it's not Yesica Toscanini sitting across from him, her trim, shapely legs drawn up under her trim, shapely, ass, it's—

"Mr. Williams!" Carla Jean chides. "Let's get you all nice and cleaned up now. My Billy will be here any minute and he's got a whole new wardrobe for you two to try on before everything's in key!"

_Punishment,_ some part of Wilson's brain asserts cheerfully. _Punishment for those mean, mean thoughts about her son._

"Here, Mr. Williams—you try this one on for size!" In Carla Jean's beefy hand, the champagne flute has become a  stiletto-heeled crystal slipper.

Wilson shrieks and falls backward, but it's too late—the robot bees are everywhere, their shiny silver wings buzzing and buzzing and making his teeth ache, and when he finally realizes it's a dream, nothing but a bad, crazy dream, he opens his eyes to—

House, holding what looks for all the world like a two-tined fork in front of his eyes. A _vibrating_ , two-tined fork.

"Wilson!" House barks. "What does this sound like to you?"

Wilson stares at him. Impatient, House strikes the tuning fork against the hospital bedframe, and instantly the sound of the summer bees fills the room.

"That's better," House mutters, and uses his free hand to aim a remote control at his CD player. The player blares to life, and Mick Jagger's voice informs the world at a virtually earth-shattering volume that he can't get no satisfaction. House's fingers race up and down his own guitar, the power chords ringing through the apartment, playing along with Keith Richards. On the bedside tray, Wilson's morning meds, water, and breakfast slush are already laid out. The plastic water bottle bounces a little bit every time the heavy bass kicks in.

"Come on, Wilson," House calls out. "Chow time! Gotta make sure you don't keel over in the shower." He leers suggestively at Wilson and waggles his eyebrows. "You _do_ remember how to use a shower, don't you? Or do I have to call in more of my reliably Reliant evil minions?"

Wilson drops his head back on his pillow and groans.

He wishes he were strong enough to stick that damn water bottle in House's ear.

 

 

 

*** Yesica Toscanini is very real. You can read more about her (or just look at the pretty pictures) [here](http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/features/2006_swimsuit/models/yesica_toscanini.html).


	26. Aftershocks 13.2: Suds

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces **  
SUMMARY:** Simple things aren't that simple now.  
 **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
 **  
Suds**  
  
  
The water feels so, so good. Heat seeps like sunlight into the shadowy bruises that still cover his body; it's been almost two weeks and he's still several shades of red, purple, yellow and green. He remembers a piece of sodden newsprint, a ruined page of comics in a puddle on the asphalt. Standing beneath the spray, he shuts his eyes tight and wills all those images to wash down the drain.  
  
House has brought him a bottle of blue shower gel that smells—blessedly—more or less like soap. Wilson's thankful for that; House might have picked lavender or freesia or something. There are two of those girly, fluffy scrubby things to go with it. One is just the puffball, and the other is attached to the end of a long, curving plastic handle. A back-washer. All these items sit in easy reach on a small shelf in the shower. This, Wilson thinks, should be no big deal.  
  
Very shortly he discovers that he's wrong. House had helped him out of the sling, and Wilson was supposed to simply hold his left arm immobile in that same position while he got cleaned up. Tomlinson had said it would work. But the moment the restraint is gone, old patterns re-emerge. He starts to wash with his right hand, and it's awkward, and his left arm automatically begins to move. It wants to take over the task. To keep it still requires a level of concentration which he, drugged and damaged, currently does not possess. Soon, despite all his efforts, that collarbone is throbbing so hard that it feels as if the skin will break.  
  
He stops just for a moment and stares at his surgical incision, a dark red line all the way down his belly. As badly as he's bruised, the cut doesn't stand out the way it otherwise would, but the staples that hold it together make it look like a zipper—either that or a weird miniature railroad. _Train wreck_ , he thinks, and snorts a little, trying to scrub his stomach without letting the mesh pouf snag on the staples.   
  
There are lumps all over his body, swellings beneath the darkened skin. By feel he finds seventeen tender, inflamed spots where he was kicked by someone wearing pointy-toed boots. That damage is deep. Those kinds of bruises take months to go away.   
  
Everything he does hurts in one way or another, but Wilson's not willing to quit. He's not ready to give up on the heat and the lather, or on the satisfying abrasiveness of the scrubber. It's so _good_ , and he feels _filthy_ , as if there's an oily grime clinging to every inch of his body. He knows it isn't really that bad, but for some reason he can't stop trying to get rid of whatever is on him. He ignores the pain that's reaching outward from his spine, ignores the sharp reprimands from his ribs, and shampoos his hair twice.   
  
His abdominal muscles rebel just as the shampoo is running down over his face. The spasm doubles him over, which sets off those chipped vertebrae. The combined pain makes him forget about his arm, and gravity pulls it downward, taking the broken clavicle out of its assigned position.  
  
He isn't aware that he's howling until the water abruptly cuts off and a large white towel flops across his bent back. He doesn't _want_ to be rescued, and he'd protest if it weren't for the pain, which has overthrown both modesty and pride. The howls degenerate into whimpers and gasps, but he still can't straighten himself. He can see his lower legs, his feet, and the pale wet tiles. House's feet are wearing gray socks, which are getting wet now, and House's hands are working the towel quickly downward. The cloth encircles his waist. He perceives only vaguely the small pressure of one towel-end getting tucked beneath the other; at present his main objective is to breathe and not pass out. Still, some small part of his brain issues a silent thanks that House is attempting to preserve whatever dignity he's got left.  
  
There's a stuttering sound, the rubber-tipped feet of the shower chair being pushed into place behind him. "Sit," commands House, and that seems like a pretty good idea. It's painful and it's slow, and he's wobbling at the knees, but he sits. Almost at once, his stomach muscles begin to relax, and the cramps subside into irregular flutters and tugs. It's a small relief; his collarbone and back are not at all ready to forgive him.  
  
A second white towel appears, falling across his shoulders. House leans down into Wilson's field of vision.   
  
"Hold still."  
  
That isn't a problem, since movement equals agony right now. He knows he's crying—the tears of pain are mixing with the water dripping out of his hair—but he doesn't dare try drying his face. He'll do what House said. Hold still. It hurts every time his heart beats, and he'd hold that still, too, if he could.  
  
He's got his eyes shut, but opens them again when he hears House approach. When he tries to look up, his back protests the shifting weight. With a moan, he lets his head tip downward again.  
  
"Told you to hold still," says House, and without further comment he pokes a straw into Wilson's mouth. He's holding a small cup of something or other—and who cares what it is, as long as there's morphine in it. Wilson doesn't ask, doesn't question the dosage or fret about addiction. He drinks until the straw will bring up nothing but air.   
  
"I'd ask what you did to yourself," grumbles House, "but I don't wanna hear it." House had tried to tell him he'd need to use the shower chair, and Wilson had foolishly declined. "Don't move until the morphine kicks in. Gonna listen to me now?"  
  
"Mmmmhhh."  
  
"Good." House's voice has softened. The towel lifts from Wilson's shoulders. He sits there, in too much pain to be as astonished as he should be when House dries his hair and his face. "Gonna take a few minutes," he says, "and I have better things to do than stand here and wait." He drapes the towel across Wilson's back again and gimps out of the room. Wilson can hear him moving back and forth in the hall.   
  
For once, Wilson's thankful that his liquid diet leaves him constantly hungry. The fuzzy opiate warmth spreads through his system with surprising speed. By the time House returns, sling in hand, he's able to straighten up enough to accept it. House leans over him and works quietly, putting the arm into its proper position. He stops, though, with the sling only halfway on. He's staring at something. Looking down toward his left shoulder, Wilson sees that the skin is inflamed. The areas that aren't covered in bruises are a vivid, startling pink.  
  
"Either you're having a reaction to the morphine," House says, "or you were trying to strip off your skin."  
  
"Dunno," mumbles Wilson. The drug is dulling everything, including any sensation from the harsh scrubbing he gave himself. "Fel' greasy. Couldn' get clean."  
  
"If you'd gotten much _cleaner_ , you'd have been bleeding." House finishes fastening the sling in place, and holds out his hand. "C'mon. Back to bed, moron."  
  
That, Wilson thinks, is a wonderful idea. They hobble together into the living room, as Wilson's pain is shrouded ever more thickly in the incoming fog. That must've been a pretty good dose he took. He's practically sleepwalking by the time they get to the bed; he doesn't even notice when the towels fall away from his body as House helps him slide beneath the blankets.  
  
At last the world is soft and warm, and all he knows is sleep.  
 


	27. Aftershocks 14.1: A Good Idea

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** House makes a plan. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
**  
A Good Idea**

****

 

****Bendy straws. That was the answer House had come up with, back when Wilson first woke up in the hospital. Not just any bendy straws, either, but the kind they give out at kids' birthday parties, the kind with a bendy section as long as a small snake. House had gone online and bought a half dozen packages of the things, rush delivery.

The reason is simple. Wilson—thanks to the repeated punches of some right-handed goon—is missing a molar from his upper left jaw. Who the hell ties a man up and does that—but that's a pointless question. House knows who, and why, and it's over and doesn't really matter anymore.

And the missing tooth, which will be a minor curse for the rest of Wilson's life, is a minor blessing for now. It means that if he has a straw that bends properly, he can poke it through the space where the tooth used to be. It means he can eat thicker liquids than a person with a wired jaw normally could.

It means that House can get Wilson a strawberry shake. It's really too soon for Wilson to be going anywhere, but they'll take the convertible and it'll make life seem not to suck quite so bad. They'll be gone for fifteen minutes at most; the Dairy Queen is right at the edge of campus, along with the Krispy Kreme and the Papa John's and all the other staples of collegiate life. There's a drive-thru. Wilson won't be alone even for a moment, and if anything happens—but nothing's going to happen.

House adds five milligrams of oxycodone to the tiny glass of ginger ale he's just poured, and makes a cautious limping beeline for Wilson's bedside. The bed's in its usual chaise-lounge position, and Wilson is asleep, as he has been for much of the day. It's dusk now, the time rapidly approaching when vampires and torture victims can go outside without attracting too much attention.

"Wake up, Rip Van Winkle."

"Mmmph."

"Oh, don't give me that. Look, I brought more drugs."

"Sleeeeeeep."

"So you're not hungry?"

Wilson's eyes open. House had known that would get his attention. He's always hungry.

"Drink this first. No dessert until you finish your magic elixir."

That's _almost_ a smirk on Wilson's face, which is still so many colors it shouldn't be. He's going to bitch and moan about this, but House has strict instructions to make him get up and around at least a little bit, once each day. Nobody ever said there couldn't be a red Corvette involved.

Wilson shuts his eyes and drinks the ginger ale, unaware of what House has in mind. Innocent, clueless Wilson. House snatches the cup from him the moment it's empty, and finds himself being studied by suspicious brown eyes.

"Yer smiling. Why?"

"I'll tell you," he replies, "in about twenty minutes. Just as soon as the drugs do their thing."

House smiles a little bit wider. This is going to be ... almost like fun.

He'll take what he can get, these days.  
 


	28. Aftershocks 14.2: Toxins

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Do not take internally. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
_  
_ **  
Toxins  
**

Wilson doesn't know what they used, but he's certain it was in the milkshake.

He hadn't recognized Tweedledee, in the gold-and-maroon striped hat and the polyester apron and the dorky glasses. Only now, too late, does he realize why he'd felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold paper cup.

He's going to die now. He's survived everything else, and now it's death by Dairy Queen. He's sweating and his head is swimming and his gut is on fire and his fingers are numb. He staggers out of his bed and through the darkness, and barely makes it to the toilet before the vomiting begins. It's more than his wired-shut jaws can take and that leads to awful consequences, the curdled acidic liquid running through his nose as well as his mouth. He tries to remember not to breathe until it's over, but it's so hard, so hard. It feels like drowning.

He's not aware that he's making noise, but he must be.  He's woken House, who is talking loudly to him and taking hold of his face. House is not being gentle. House is never gentle when he's panicked, and he's definitely panicked. A drawer gets yanked open, beside the sink. There's a glint of silver in House's hand and Wilson realizes it's a small pair of nippers. House has done the medically responsible thing; he's made sure that there's a way to cut the wires if the need should arise.

It hurts like hell when House does it, and by the time it's finished, about thirty seconds later, Wilson's vomiting again.

" _Wilson._ What's happening? _Tell me_."

The moment he can manage it, he does.

"Poisoned," he says, and his voice is raw from the vomiting and his sinuses are burning and he's going to die from this. "I don' know wha' they used," he gasps out, and begins to dry heave and it hurts so bad he thinks he might black out. His chipped vertebrae make it feel like he's being stabbed in the back.

"We're going," says House, and it's obvious what he means: _Hospital. Now_.

It hurts too much to lean on House, so he has to make his own way out the door, but he's aware of House moving with him, so close that he can feel the brush of House's clothes. Pajamas. House isn't even bothering to get dressed, or to put on his shoes. They take the 'Vette because it happens to be parked nearest the door of the building. For a moment Wilson's surprised that House is giving him preference over the car, knowing that he will probably puke again in a minute. He'd laugh if he weren't dying.

They're moving before he can even settle properly into the seat. He knows they're speeding insanely and for once he doesn't want House to slow down.

There's an indefinite stretch of time during which Wilson can only feel the pain, and the motion of the car, and the cold wind on his face. His eyes are watering, but House isn't making any cracks about him being a crybaby; he really _must_ be dying. He gasps as a callused hand rests on his throat, checking his pulse. But it's all right; it's just House.

Then there's House's voice, apparently on the phone and shouting orders to someone in the ER about _Wilson, ready, poison, crash cart, unknown_ —

And then Wilson's throwing up again, all over the floorboard of the Corvette, and House—

"Hang on. Almost there."

"Was the milkshake," croaks Wilson. "I didn' recognize the guy. He wasn' wearin' glasses before. Or the dumb—" He gasps and clutches his stomach and waits for another wave of nausea to pass. "Dumb hat an' apron. Can't believe I din't _know_."

"You saw one of those ... one of _them_. At the Dairy Queen?" House is staring straight ahead; they're within sight of the hospital.

"Yeah. Only, didn' know it then. It hurts, House. Oh God. Oh _shit_ , it hurts." Wilson's leaning back and trying to breathe and each breath is torture because the vomiting has ravaged his body. That, and he's been poisoned.

There's another silence and then the sickening sensation of the car turning sharply once, twice. They're slowing down and his stomach is lurching with every change in direction and speed.

"Wilson," says House, as they come to a halt outside the ER, "there were only two girls working there tonight."

 

* * *

There's a rattling, squeaking noise and Wilson glances over to see a gurney move into place beside the car. The next thing he knows, House is there, opening the car door and yelling at the ER staff. Then House's hands are wrapped firmly around his right elbow, urging him out of the car and onto the rolling bed. It's hard to do, but House needs him to move and so he tries. The bed's been lowered and all he has to do is scoot over. There are firm hands on his hips, moving him, and Wilson curses, fighting the urge to kick out. It's just House. Just House.

He lies back with a cry of pain. He's shifting all those broken bones; he wonders if this is how it feels to have been hit by a car. House's hands slip a blood pressure cuff over his right arm. The constriction of it makes him whimper, even though he knows better. He's got his eyes squeezed shut and he's trying not to sob, but the pain has swallowed him whole. When he opens his eyes, a light shines into them, and Wilson almost screams. A part of his brain is wondering why he would want to do that, when he knows exactly what's going on. It's just House, trying to save him. House is trying to _save_ him, and it's so unfair. He's really doing his best, and it isn't going to work.

It's odd, Wilson thinks, that he's not unconscious yet. He's still sweating, and he's colder than he's ever been. He realizes that he is now inside the hospital, even though he can't recall having felt the gurney moving. He knows the sounds and the scent of the place. He knows whose hand is on his forehead and whose voice is barking orders about shock and blankets.

Then there are soft layers of cloth settling over him and House is saying something about fluids. Pillows slip below Wilson's knees, elevating his feet. A needle pierces his arm, and he opens his eyes to see that it's House putting in the IV. There is a hovering flock of staff-creatures; House scatters them like pigeons.

"Go find a room for him. A _private_ room. _Now_. Bother me with paperwork and I will beat you. _GO!_ "

There's not much noise in the room after that, and his eyes follow House as House stops chasing the staff away and leans over the gurney.

"Wilson," he says, and his tone is so strange, so unlike House, that Wilson's certain all over again that he's going to die. "There were no men working at the Dairy Queen tonight. There were two girls, a brunette and a redhead. Remember?"

"I ... no. No.  There was—wait." It hurts to breathe, let alone talk. Wilson's jaw is so sore, but if House is trying, Wilson will try, too. The images flicker wildly in his mind, superimposing upon each other, and both versions seem so real. "Girls?"

"Yeah," says House, "and they were hot, which is—just plain _weird_ , for a Dairy Queen. Do you remember?"

Wilson's breathing a little harder and his chest aches, and his back aches, and his stomach is trying to turn inside out again. "I—maybe. But I _saw_ 'im. But—I remember girls too. Brunette—was taller. Was she?" He hopes House has the answer to this, because Wilson himself is far too confused; he supposes that it's the poison. If he's been poisoned at all, which he must've been, but he had thought he'd be dead by now.

"Yes," says House, as seriously as if he's delivering a terminal diagnosis. "The brunette was tall. And—"

"No. No, I don' remember," Wilson moans. "I'm just— want _sleep_." He's suddenly so weak and he's shaking again. The cold has cut right through those layers of blankets, but House doesn't seem to care.

"Stay with me, Wilson. They had aprons on, which sort of defeated the purpose of those low-cut shirts they were wearing.  We got a _great_ view when the redhead leaned out the little window, though. Remember?"

All at once, he _does_.  He can _feel_ it all, just as vividly as he did that night, when _someone_ —

Wilson's thoughts vanish entirely; there is only pain and nausea and pain again. He rolls onto his right side and retches (pointlessly; there's nothing left to bring up) until he's just too weak to continue. He remembers. He _remembers_. There was no poison in the milkshake at all. Tweedledee wasn't at the Dairy Queen; that was all a dream. The other thing—the thing he'd thought he dreamed, and that he'd then forgotten, pushed somewhere into the distant margins of his mind—that part was real. _Real. Oh God, no_.

There's a low wailing noise echoing off the walls. Wilson realizes he's the one making that sound, and everyone will hear him, but he can't stop. Then there are hands on his arm again, gently stretching it out. The pinprick barely registers amidst all the other hurts.  What Wilson knows is that he begins to feel different. The noise stops. The memory and the pain both let go of him.

He can feel House's hand. House's hand is warm on Wilson's forehead and he focuses on that. He can deal with that. It's the last thing he's aware of as he falls into merciful blackness.


	29. Aftershocks 15.1: Poison Control

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** He wishes they'd just wake him up when it was over. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House, Cuddy **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
**  
Poison Control**

 

When he wakes, the first thing Wilson thinks of is an illustration of the ghost of Jacob Marley, in a book he'd seen as a kid. Marley had bandages wound around his head and under his jaw, holding it closed; that's exactly how Wilson feels. He's well past dead and he can't open his mouth.

Also, judging by the smell of the place, he's not in House's apartment anymore.

"Please tell me that din't happen," he whispers through his teeth, as he opens his eyes enough to see that, sadly, it _did_ happen. He's in the hospital, and the pale light coming through the windows is turning the dark room faintly blue. The memories spiral downward upon him like buzzards. He swallows, and it feels like his throat has been scoured with sandpaper. Everything hurts, but not nearly as bad as it did a few hours before. His jaw has been re-wired while he slept, and since he's sure that process would have been agonizing, he's glad to have been unconscious at the time.

He would love to simply pass out for, oh, a year or so. How wonderful it would be to let everything go, to heal while he slept.

His right arm is still rigged up with an IV. He wiggles his fingers and they touch a small plastic object that he recognizes immediately. It almost makes him smile; it's the morphine button. He gives it a click before turning his head to look around the room.

In a second bed to his left, a familiar shape is sprawled, pajama-clad and sleeping. _Good idea, House. Just stay asleep._ Wilson can do that, too; he can sleep. If anything goes wrong, House will know.

Wilson presses the button a few more times and lets himself drift away.

 

* * *

"If you're gonna puke that much," says the low voice next to Wilson's head, "you're really supposed to get drunk and stupid first."

Wilson's far too groggy to have any kind of a comeback. Also, he remembers why he was throwing up in the first place, and it's making him want to do it again. The floating pieces of dream and reality swirl around and settle inexorably into a coherent whole. 

He wishes he could go back to the way he was before last night, recalling only the mundane violence. Failing that, he wants to believe that the toxic milkshake was real and the _other_ thing—the _thing_ that happened in the barn, the relentless, invisible hands and the vicious wet mouth—was the nightmare. 

But it's far too late for that. He has used up his quota of delusions. The only real question now is whether anyone _knows_. His gut twists at the thought.

"House," is all he can manage to say, and he hopes House will fill in the blanks.

"I haven't seen that much vomit since I went to Mardi Gras." House is sitting in a chair beside the bed, looking at him the way House looks at a particularly interesting x-ray.

Wilson squeezes his eyes shut and brings his hand up to cover his face. He feels the red heat creeping over his skin. He hopes like hell that he didn't get delirious last night and talk (scream, whimper) about ... _that_. The last thing he needs is for the whole hospital to be spinning out more rumors about _what happened to Poor Doctor Wilson_. There's enough of that going on already.

House continues, in that flat tone he has, and answers the question Wilson hasn't asked. "As far as the hospital's concerned, you had an upset stomach and the vomiting just aggravated your injuries. All your tests came back okay. You'll probably be released this afternoon."  

"Wha's this?" Wilson mumbles, fingering his jaw. "Feels diffrnt."

"You've still got the horizontal wires anchored into your jaw," says House, "but for keeping your mouth shut, I had 'em replace the metal with elastics."  The corner of House's mouth curves upward.  " _Just_ as effective for preventing your lectures, but easier to cut in an emergency."

Wilson's not sure whether to be glad when the door slides open, interrupting House's insults. It's Cuddy—probably the only person who dares to venture into the lion's den. 

"How's the nausea?" she asks, and she seems to be asking them _both_ , which is odd.

"He's a lot better," House replies. Cuddy isn't satisfied.

"And _you?_ " she demands. "You don't think anyone told me you were sick? If there's something I should know—"

Wilson gives a questioning glance to House; House glares at him.

"I wasn't feeling well, but you remember my car? The fast, red, gorgeous chick magnet? Wilson," he gripes, ". _barfed_ in it. You'd have been sick, too. Admit it."  
  
Cuddy looks at House, then at Wilson, who can see a whole series of subtle calculations going on in her eyes. He wonders if she can read his own plea: _Just don't ask questions. Not now. Just don't._

Maybe she does understand, because she nods silently and turns back toward the door.

"House?" asks Wilson, once Cuddy is gone.

"I played pretend, okay? I told the staff it was a stomach bug and that we both had it. Big deal." House gets up and limps over to the door, looking at that instead of at Wilson. He's still shoeless and in his flannel pants and t-shirt from the night before. "Go back to sleep.  I've gotta get dressed and go avoid some _other_ patients."  
 


	30. 15.2: Contact

  
**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Wilson has developed a new reflex. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Contact  
**  
  
Wilson flinches away from the hand of the nurse, as they head for Radiology to check him over again before they let him go home. They can't use the MRI; there's way too much hardware in Wilson's body now.  
  
It's the flinch that's preoccupying House, though. He'd first noticed it on Friday, immediately before he'd ejected Norma Jean or whatever her name was. At the time he hadn't thought too hard about it. _Anyone_ would have wanted to run in terror from that woman.  
  
But then last night it happened again. Wilson had startled at every touch as they arrived at the ER. He'd damn near kicked House in the groin as House helped move him onto the gurney. Yes, the reaction had stopped pretty quickly, but the fact that it started in the first place is ... troubling.   
  
Today's nurse is a lithe and gentle-mannered blonde, the kind that typically causes Wilson to stand slightly too close and put on that little-boy smile. If Wilson doesn't want _her_ hand on him, that means—well, House isn't sure what it means. He will have to observe this new response very carefully, like a symptom of an infection that might spread.  
  
House doesn't want that reaction to get any worse, because it has become necessary for him to touch Wilson so often. There are injuries to tend. That sling requires frequent readjustments. Every morning and evening House has to examine his patient, checking for heat, inflammation, anything that might indicate a problem. There's all of that practical stuff, but there's another thing, too.  
  
The other thing is irrational and weird and has never happened before. He's been finding _excuses_ to put his hands on Wilson, because House's brain has gone haywire and it refuses to believe that Wilson is here and he's real and he's safe. They might have killed him, but they didn't. House's mind keeps demanding proof of that, and the only proof it will accept is the tactile sensation of Wilson's warm and living body.  
  
House should be stronger than that, but some part of him seems to be stuck in the past, on the phone with Martin on that endless night. Some part of him is still helplessly _listening_ to Wilson being beaten, broken. _Taken_. It makes his guts ache every time he thinks of it, and he thinks of it far too often. It's over and he shouldn't need solace now; he's a grown man and he knows better. He's a grown man, so he keeps a secret bottle of scotch in his bedroom, and tries to soothe himself without Wilson knowing. It doesn't work very well, but he's got to do something more brave than wrapping his arms around Wilson and holding on for dear life. Wilson probably wouldn't appreciate that anyway.  
  
Of the two of them, it's Wilson who's always been more reticent about touch. House puts his hands on everything, while Wilson's hands stay tucked safely in his pockets, or planted on his hips, or clasping some file or other. There are very limited parameters, with him. If you're not either a patient or a lover, Wilson won't touch you. He avoids contact so well, so deftly. He glides past, slips gently away and you—if you're an average, unobservant cretin—never even notice that he's doing it. People think of Wilson as soft and cuddly, and he isn't. He's as detached as a crane in flight. Or he was, until Martin and his band of apes shot him out of the sky.  
  
There he is now, barefoot and in pajamas in the middle of the day, hobbling down the corridor under the sympathetic eye of that RN. It is suddenly unbearable to see her walking away with him. House charges after them.  
  
"He's not _brain damaged_ , you know," he snaps at the nurse as he approaches. "He remembers how to get there."  
  
"I'm supposed to help with the—"  
  
"Not anymore you're not. Anyone bitches at you, send 'em after me; I could use some fresh meat."  
  
House says nothing about the expression of weary relief that washes briefly across Wilson's face as she leaves. Instead, he brings his hand to Wilson's shoulder and rests it there. There's no flinch, no nervous reaction, just a softly exhaled breath. A ravenous hope uncoils itself in House's chest as he limps slowly toward Radiology, alongside his friend.


	31. Afershocks 15.3: Down Time

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Between the motion and the act ...  
 **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
**Down Time**

 

Wilson is released at five that afternoon.

The ride back to the apartment is mostly silent, with House concentrating on his driving and Wilson dozing, the passenger seat tilted back a little. Traces of vomit-stink still linger in the 'Vette, despite the extra fifty House had slipped the guys at the carwash to get it all out.

_Probably smell like this forever,_ House thinks sourly. _Same as spilling a quart of milk in the car._

He brakes for a light a little more abruptly than necessary, but Wilson doesn't stir.

 

* * *

At home, Wilson shuffles around like an old man, and House is painfully reminded of the morning he'd spied on Wilson as he and Jerry had taken tiny, halting baby steps just to get to the bathroom.

_What am I doing?_ he thinks. _I can never fix this, never undo what was done. Why am I even trying?_

He says none of these things, and is silent as he helps Wilson into the hospital bed.

House eases down to a comfortable position on the sofa, intending to catch up on some _JAMA_ articles he's bookmarked. Soon enough, though, he's surfing the Web, looking for more nutritious Wilson-chow recipes. It's when he realizes he's been staring at the same recipe for almost ten minutes—pumpkin pie smoothie, a Thanksgiving treat for the geriatric set—that he gives up and leans back.

 

* * *

He dreams of Wilson handing him a pad of paper.

Wilson is whole and undamaged in the dream, but he holds a forefinger to his lips in the universal gesture of silence. Puzzled, House looks down.

The pages in the pad are blank. Every one of them.

 

* * *

When House opens his eyes, the shadows are long and the light dim. He hadn't turned any of the lamps on when they got back, and now full evening has come on and taken them unawares. Wilson is sound asleep.

With a weary grunt, House levers himself up off the sofa and picks up his bike keys. He's not spending another minute in a puke-perfumed car if he can help it. He retrieves the small paper bag with the obnoxious printed pattern from behind the stereo where he stashed it the other night, folds it up tight and tucks it under his leather jacket. House zips the jacket closed; the paper rustles and crinkles next to his t-shirt as he reaches for his helmet, and he smiles just a little, anticipating the expression on Cuddy's face when she sees his cheeky, sleazy surprise.

_Maybe it's time to start talking,_ he thinks. _But not right now._

 

* * *

Wilson's awake when House returns, but he doesn't bother asking where House has been. All he does is turn and look once as House walks in. That's part of their routine now. Wilson has to make certain that it's only his friend. He's never spoken of it, but his body betrays the release of tension every time.

The carefully wrapped ( _thank you, Lisa Cuddy_ ) little box is hidden uncomfortably beneath House's jacket. He stumps into the kitchen and puts it away in one of the upper cabinets, the way you'd hide cookies from a child. That trick had never worked on House when he was a kid, of course, but then he was never in Wilson's condition.

Wilson's condition. Those two words bring back a flood of images that snuffs out the fragile, happy sparks he'd trailed home from his visit to Cuddy. Somehow, while he was over there, he had allowed himself to feel like it would be all right. He'd been so pleased about devising a gift that Wilson never should have needed in the first place.

Shouldn't he know better than that by now?

 

* * *

It's almost ten at night and the two of them sit in what has become their usual fashion: Wilson's in his bed, with the head raised so that it forms something like a big reclining chair. The better to eat—well, if you can call that eating—and watch cable. House is to Wilson's right, slouched on the end of the sofa, firmly in possession of the remote.

Nothing that's on is interesting enough to provide a good distraction. Nothing covers Wilson's deafening silence, and his dark eyes offer no hint as to the reason he's so quiet. It might simply be due to the wires or it might be something else on Wilson's mind. They did so much to him, damn near slaughtered him, and all on account of House; how could he be anything but furious? And yet there's so little evidence, because Wilson can hide practically anything. House can't tell, no matter how hard he tries.

House finally gives up on his manic channel-flipping. The random search has stopped on a re-run of _Baywatch_ , but it doesn't matter. He turns down the sound and prepares to do what feels like walking through a minefield in the dark.

"He told you he knew me," says House, and the slow venom in his tone surprises even him. There's no need to explain to Wilson who "he" is.

Wilson blinks in surprise, then nods slightly and waits. Okay then, House thinks, and takes a breath, preparing for another blind step.

_"That,"_ he continues, "was thirty-three years ago." He looks over for a moment to make certain that Wilson's following, understanding him. Wilson's following, all right, those sharp eyes showing little emotion but plenty of comprehension: House has tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and this part of his past. "Never believe what people tell you," he says. "Especially when they say they're your friend." _I learned it early, Wilson. You can do the math._

"You 'ere—fourteen?" Wilson's doing that squinting, blinking, head-tilting thing that he only does when he's puzzled or concerned or both. "Fourteen."

"When I ran in terror, yeah." House shifts and squirms. All at once his leg is killing him. "Twelve," he says, and he can't look at Wilson when he says it. "I was twelve when I met him."

"He looked older'n you."

"Five years." House gets up, limps swiftly toward the door and snatches up his helmet. _No,_ he thinks, _I'm too tired. I'm too tired to ride and I'm way too damn tired to keep talking._

He puts down the lid and takes the keys for Wilson's Volvo instead. Safety and comfort are good things sometimes.

"I need beer," he growls, facing away to unlock the door. "Back in a while."

Wilson deserves better than this. He deserves so much better, but that will have to wait until House can find his way around the land mines.  
 

 


	32. Aftershocks 15.4: Threads

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:**   Surprise, surprise. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Cuddy, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

  
**Threads**

 

That sharp, insistent rapping on her door can only mean one thing. House never uses the doorbell; he thinks it's way cooler to knock with the cane. 

Cuddy sighs, puts down her book and uncurls herself from the sofa. On her way to the door, she slips into a tough, sauntering attitude, the way she'd put on a tailored coat, enjoying its perfect fit. Whatever he wants, he's going to have to work for it.

"How good of you to _call_ before you dropped by," she says, opening the door just enough so that he can see her leaning her shoulder heavily against the inside frame. He's not going to push his way in, oh no. "If you wanted a date, you should've asked yesterday, so I could have turned you down in advance."

"I prefer stealth. Makes it easier for me to catch you and your latest internet stalker."

"You'd know all about stalking. What do you _want_ , House?"

" _Want?_ You wound me. I come bearing _gifts_."

For the first time she realizes that he has been holding his left hand out of her sight, behind his back. He shifts and brings forth a paper shopping bag that, oh _God_ , looks like it might have come from one of those seedy little stores full of videos and lingerie. It's hot pink and has a cheaply printed pattern of leopard spots all over it. House dangles it in front of her, its twisted paper handles looped over his index finger. He's smiling at her, but it isn't the leering, crocodile grin she'd have expected. Some kind of strange hopefulness is peeking out like a rabbit from behind the thicket of defenses. It's just enough to keep her from shutting the door in his face.

"Shopping at Delilah's Den of Delights?" she asks, arching an eyebrow at him. 

"Nope! The Livin' Large Ladies' Boutique. They had a much better selection."

"No matter what they taught you in kindergarten, House, you really shouldn't share all your toys." She starts to push the door closed but he pushes against it, wedging himself into place.

"It's not a _toy_ ," he huffs, rolling his eyes at her. "Jeez, you're such a spoilsport. It's harmless, okay? I swear it has nothing to do with the wild, screaming sex you want to have with me."

Her fingers tap against the door frame while she considers. Worst case scenario, she'll merely have to throw him out; she has done it before and it's really not too hard. That hopeful, almost pleading expression creeps into his eyes again. He's up to something, and in spite of herself she does want to know what it is. At the very least it's _bound_ to be more interesting than the novel she's been reading.

She steps back and swings the door open wide.

"You make the craziest assumptions," says House as he steps in, holding the garish little bag up and out of her curious reach. "I never even said this was for _you._ "

" _What?_ " 

"I need your help with it, because you can sew. Believe it or not, I have that ability myself, but I _don't_ have a sewing machine. You do."

Indeed she does, and he knows that because he explored every part of her home when he broke in. This is getting better by the second. What could he _possibly_ want her to sew?

"House—"  she leans in close, smiles up at him, and savors the momentary confusion—and distraction—that flashes across his features. He forgets to guard his treasure and she snatches it away, retreating quickly as she pulls the item out of its neon-leopard bag. 

" _Oh my God_. What in the—this is the most—I'm ... glad it isn't for _me_ , House, but ... "

"It's for _Wilson,_ " he says, and that rare, beautiful smile of his appears for just a moment. "It just needs some ... alterations."

" _Wilson?!_ "  She's starting to laugh; she can't help it. The thought of Wilson with this ... _thing_ ...

"Let me explain."

 

* * *

"Yes. Yes, I can do that," she confirms. "It won't take long."

"Great! Love to stay and chat, but—"

"Not so fast!" she snaps. He freezes in his sneakered tracks, and she continues in a much softer, more sinuous tone, pulling him back to her as if by invisible strings. "You're only a _little_ taller than he is," she murmurs, deliberately letting her gaze roam up and down his body. "Your measurements should work just _fine_ for this."

His eyes widen in surprise before he recovers. "Sure your ruler's long enough?"

"That's you, House," she purrs, turning away to go get her measuring tape, "always the classiest guy in the room."

Only House would think of a project like this. It's juvenile, creative, glaringly tacky, possibly obscene and completely practical. _Necessary,_ even. There's a bizarre sense of honor in being asked to assist. 

She's glad that he can't see her grinning as she sashays out of the foyer. She was right.  This is _much_ more fun than her book.  
 

 


	33. Aftershocks 16.1: The Trojan Horse

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear.  
 **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
**The Trojan Horse**

 

"Hey! Wilson! Wake up!"

House watches as Wilson struggles up from his semi-reclined, drug-aided slumber. He waits patiently through these new stages of waking; with Wilson's physical recovery proceeding well, he no longer feels the need to rouse him and check for neurological damage.

Wilson moans softly and moves his right arm to cover his belly.

_Trying to protect his vitals,_ House thinks.

A leg shifts restlessly under the white cotton sheet.

_Trying to run. Trying to kick._

Wilson's right hand clenches into a tight fist; the muscles of his right bicep twitch.

_Trying to fight back._

"Wilson," House says more softly. "It's okay. You're safe now."

It's been like this every morning. He thinks Wilson is dreaming, revisiting the place that's acquired a permanent address in his head. A barn, where the corners are always dark and there's a silver cigarette case lying open on an empty table.

He hasn't asked and Wilson hasn't said.

"House?" The name is slurred; it's difficult for Wilson to form the "ow" sound with his broken jaw. Wilson's told him it was the last thing Grey Eyes' men did, and House has wondered ever since if it was a random choice or another example of Martin's perverse sense of poetry to rob the man who counsels others in pain the ability to speak of his own.

"The one and only," House says, and forces himself to look into Wilson's eyes. The pupils are slightly smaller than they should be for the morning hour—the side effect of pain and being loaded up on assorted narcotics. "Want some water? Juice?"

"W'dr," Wilson mumbles, and that's been a new morning routine too. The bastards who'd held him ( _tortured him, call it what it really was_ ) for twenty-four hours hadn't bothered to give him any, and Wilson had been seriously dehydrated by the time he'd been dumped in the alley. Even though he was pumped full of glucose and liquids in the hospital, he craves water—can't seem to get enough of it, like a sailor who's lost his compass and gotten marooned in a desert.

House makes sure now there's always a couple of bottles of fresh water within Wilson's reach. He grabs the nearest one and checks that the little blue nozzle is popped up. He hands it to Wilson, who tilts the bottle and squirts a long drink into his mouth.

"Y'know, you could squirt some of that stuff on your body too," House says. "You don't have another shower pretty soon, you'll start stinking up my apartment."

"Had one t'hospital."

"They _wiped the puke_ off you at the hospital," House clarifies, "and that was two _smelly_ days ago. You haven't had a complete shower since you fired Clarabelle."

Wilson looks around in annoyance. "Carla Jean. And I din't fire her!"

"Okay, so _I_ fired her," House concedes. "My original point stands: you need a bath and there's no way in hell I'm giving you one."

"Can't showr." Wilson's eyes drop; he sets the water bottle down and gently touches his strapped left arm. "Can't keep this in place. Hurts. You saw."

House purses his lips out with a sigh. "Yeah well, as usual I'm the one who has to come up with the brilliant ideas around here." Ignoring Wilson's look of perturbation, he retrieves Cuddy's package from its hiding place in the kitchen. He tosses it in Wilson's lap.

"Got a present for you, champ," he says.

Wilson looks at the brightly-wrapped package like it contains a bomb, or rattlesnakes, or some infernal doomsday device that only House could come up with.

"Well? Open it!" House urges.

Wilson shoots him a look of irritation, and for just a moment House rejoices. _That's my Wilson!_ he thinks.

"Izn't a tie, izzit?"

House tries to look as distressed as possible.

"What? No! If there's one thing you don't need it's another tie!" There's a flash of— _something_ in Wilson's eyes then. _Huh?_ House thinks, but then Wilson blinks and whatever it was is gone. "Trust me, this is way cooler than a tie."

Wilson makes a grumpy sound; he awkwardly wedges the narrow parcel under his left arm and uses his good right hand to laboriously untape the wrapping. The shiny paper unfolds, revealing the plain white box beneath. House waits for him to say something about the fact that the words on the gift wrap cheerily proclaim _"FOR THE BAR MITZVAH BOY!"_ but apparently Wilson has already used up his quota of irritation this morning. He fumbles the lid off, and groans softly at the layers of tissue nested inside.

_Nope, not quite his entire quota._

House waits, jiggling his cane impatiently as Wilson roots through the thin, crinkly blue paper. At last Wilson finds the prize, and lifts it out carefully. Wilson's eyes widen, and House can contain himself no longer.

"Isn't it great? Cuddy helped."

Wilson is staring at the length of fabric in his right hand.

"It's ... a bikini," he says at last. "You got me ... a ... bikini." He regards the object a moment, then looks at House. "An ... _uhgly_ bikini."

House scowls. "It's not ugly, it's _hideous._ And it's not a bikini. Or rather, it _was_ a bikini. Now it's a sling!"

Wilson gives him a dubious glance.

"It's _colorful!"_ House protests. "It's Hawaii!" And it's true, the scene screenprinted on the material _is_ Hawaiian—if Hawaiian beaches were populated by mutant orange monkeys picking monstrous pink coconuts off cherry red palm trees, while green hula girls splash in a sulfurous yellow ocean. Naked green hula girls. With gills.

House observes that Wilson's face is turning a peculiar color.

"A ... sling?" he says faintly.

"Yeah." House shifts from his chair onto the side of Wilson's bed, forcing Wilson to scoot over a little. He takes the modified swimwear and holds it up. The mutant monkeys now seem to be reaching hungrily for the green-gilled hula girls.

"See? I took the padded shoulder strap from a regular sling, and Cuddy sewed it up in the bottom half of the bikini. Then—" he runs the fabric through his hands; now the lizard girls are chasing the monkeys— "she sewed the top half to the bottom, and _voila!_ the cups provide the arm rest!" House fingers the material thoughtfully. "Soft, comfortable, practical, and it doesn't matter if it gets wet."

Wilson is still staring at the garishly-printed material.

"Cuddy made this?"

"She's a woman of many secret talents," House replies. He pauses. "And I've dedicated my life to finding out every one of them."

Wilson ignores him; he's smoothing out the soft spandex, gently rubbing one thumb over a ghastly pink coconut.

"Thanks," he says quietly.

House finds himself coughing. _Dust,_ he thinks. _Gotta get Lady in here once Wilson's back on his feet._ He steals Wilson's water bottle and takes a quick swallow.

"Here," he says, "let's try it out."

Wilson sighs but allows him to undo the various buckles and snaps without a fight. House hides a gloating smile at the quick surrender; this new, helpless version of Wilson is an interesting study.

"Sheez, House—" Wilson is holding up the bikini top's bra cups. "These are _huge._ Who'd wear this? Keen Latifah?"

"You wish," House says. "Just like this is the closest you'll ever get to wearing Cuddy's panties on your head."

Wilson makes a grunting sound that's probably meant to be a laugh as House gently maneuvers Wilson's left arm into the sling. He unfastens the clip on the long neck strap and lifts one end, intending to loop it over Wilson's shoulders.

The soft, silky fabric brushes against Wilson's cheek.

Wilson gasps and jerks back; his eyes are wide with terror and he's grabbed hold of House's wrist, keeping it from going any further.

_"No,"_ he breathes. _"Please_ — _"_

__House sits very still. Wilson's grip is like iron; it's cutting off his circulation and already House can feel pins and needles in his fingertips. He keeps the pain from his face and schools himself to calmness.

"Wilson," he says softly. "Wilson, it's me. House."

Wilson stares at him. He's panting and there's a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. It's almost as if he doesn't recognize House or the apartment.

"Wilson?" House's hand is beginning to change colors, blooming a mottled red and white. He grits his teeth.

_"James!_ It's me," he says again.

Wilson blinks. The vise-like grip slowly loosens, then Wilson's hand has fallen away. House is left rubbing his wrist, urging the blood to flow faster. _I'll have bruises there,_ he thinks clinically. _What the fucking hell was that all about?_

"Sorry," Wilson whispers. His head is bowed and he's looking at his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry. Flashback."

"Yeah, I got that part," House replies dryly. "Don't worry about it." He takes a deep breath. "Want to try this again?"

Wilson nods, and slowly, carefully, House manages to loop the long strap over the back of Wilson's neck without touching his face. Once it's fastened, he sits back. Wilson's breathing has slowed to almost normal.

"Okay?" House asks.

"'kay," Wilson says.

"Good." House stands up and rubs his hands together briskly. Wilson's eyes flick quickly away. "Let's get you some juice and your morning meds and then you can give that thing a test-drive."

* * *

House listens to the shower run. He doesn't want to think about what he's just seen, but the analytical part of his mind won't let it go.

It had been the touch of cloth against Wilson's face that had set him off. At some point in his captivity his kidnappers must have gagged him.

Wilson had never mentioned a gag.

The pieces of the puzzle are there, jigsaw fragments scattered on a card table. Little pieces of pasteboard, that when fit together in the right way, reveal a complete picture—Stonehenge, a German castle, the Statue of Liberty. A cow. A horse.

For the first time in his life, House doesn't want to see the whole picture.

 

 


	34. Aftershocks 16.2: We Interrupt This Program ...

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Is one peaceful meal too much to ask? **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
**  
We Interrupt This Program ...**

 

It's dinner time. What that means is that Wilson slowly sucks a yogurt/fruit/protein smoothie through a straw, while House devours a plate of fried chicken that he picked up on the way home. He sinks his fangs into a drumstick, tilts back his head and makes lascivious noises of pleasure.

"This is _soooo good_ , Jimmy. You sure you don't want some?"

Wilson's lets his middle finger express his thoughts about that. His stomach rumbles, unsatisfied with its rations as it has been every day for the last two weeks. At least he isn't both hungry _and_ dirty anymore. The latest gift from House had proved as useful as it was tacky. Between that and the shower chair he'd been all right.

He'd still had to force himself to stop trying to scrub away that invisible layer of grime. This time he knew what it was, and knew for certain that he didn't want House asking why he'd nearly stripped off his skin. Wilson decides not to think about that, in favor of thinking about just how much he'd like to kill House right now. That chicken smells like the food of the gods. House could be merciful and eat in the kitchen, but no. Why do that when he can inflict such gratifying torment?

Wilson says nothing, and heaves a harsh sigh through his nose.

The center of Wilson's tongue is irritated, rubbed slightly raw by the constant use of straws stuck through that gap where his tooth used to be. He has been finding ways to relieve that problem, wiggling the straw so that its end will rest in different spots. But no matter what he does, he finds it a little painful to attempt to eat _and_ talk. 

He pulls the TV remote out from its hiding place beneath his blankets. _Pimp My Ride_ is on; he turns up the volume. 

House jiggles his left leg, bouncing the heel against the floor. He eyes the remote as if it has just committed some unforgivable crime, but he doesn't move to snatch it away. That's just not _right._ The sun rises, the sun sets, and House wants the remote control; these are the laws of nature. Briefly Wilson wonders whether gravity will now switch off and he will find himself levitating above the bed, and the bed floating upward from the floor.

He tosses the remote at House, watching to make sure that it doesn't rise like a balloon and bump against the ceiling.

At first it seems that things will return to their current version of normal. The remote falls as it should. House grabs it and — turns the TV volume way down instead of looking for something better to watch. _Not right, not right_ , Wilson thinks. _Oh, House, not now_. He glares sideways at House and redoubles his efforts at drinking his dinner. If he could do it without removing the carefully placed straw from his mouth, he'd tell House to turn on Comedy Central or the Cartoon Network or anything he didn't have to think about. 

Not that his request would matter. House has set his food (what's left of it) on the coffee table. He's leaned back against the sofa cushions, scowling upward at nothing. That's almost never a good sign. _Not now, House. Whatever it is, just ... not now._

"Did he remind you of me at all?" House asks. At once Wilson finds that he's no longer hungry. His skin feels cold, and then hot, and then cold again. He wants to shoot back _What the hell kind of question is that?_ but of course there are wires and a straw to contend with. 

House watches him as Wilson numbly removes the straw, trying to think of anything to say that won't make things worse than they already are. It's too late. It's always too late, when House surprises him like this. Wilson's face always gives him away.

"That would be a yes," House says. "Of course he reminded you of me. He reminds everyone of me. Except in the cases where I remind people of _him_."

"Oh _God_. House." Wilson breathes in, sighing like a weary pack animal and resting his hand over his eyes. "It was—a physical r'semblance. That's all." He pauses. "Don' tell me yer related?"

"No. But my _mom_ thought we should have been." 

"Don't be _shtupid_ ," Wilson snaps, as well as he can snap through his clenched teeth. In the force of his frustration he can't speak as clearly as he'd like. "Yer blamin' y'self fer genetics? The hell'd you think it means? Nothing."

"You don't understand," House says, in a quiet tone that Wilson recognizes. It's the same way House sometimes sounds when he's lost a patient. "I could've been just like him."

"But you aren't," Wilson replies. For one absent moment he thinks about the fact that he still doesn't know his captor's actual name. House won't speak it, as if it were a curse too terrible to hear. It's almost funny; they used to call the rehab lackey Voldemort, _He Who Must Not be Named_ — but he was a Care Bear by comparison.

"But I could've been," repeats House, as if the possibility alone were proof of guilt.

"An' yet you aren't." Wilson guides himself back, away from his emotions and into this more familiar territory. "The potential is more important than the choice?" he asks. If he stays calm he can enunciate pretty well, despite the lisp, the way all the edges of his words are softened. "I own a gun. Doesn' mean I'm a murderer."

" _You_ own a gun?"

"Julie 'as paranoid." Wilson thinks for a moment before continuing, "So're you."

"You don't _get_ it. Would you want to live with it? Knowing that _he_ picked you out? Saw himself in you?"

"You ever think," asks Wilson, slowing down so that he can use the words he wants rather than the ones that will be easiest, "mebbe he's _delusional_ , as well's psycho? 'Cause las' time I checked, you got your kicks savin' lives."

"It pays well," says House.

"So's murder, which you could also do. Yer smart enough. You could get away with it."

"How do you know I don't?" There it is, that eternal, wicked sense of humor, clawing its way up from the abyss. Wilson decides to toss it a lifeline.

"If you liked killin' people," he says, "you'd've offed me years ago." It's hard for Wilson to smile, but he tries, and House _almost_ smiles back.

Better yet, he picks up the remote and starts changing channels.  
 

 


	35. Aftershocks 16.3: The Bound Man

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** The centre cannot hold ...  
**CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House  
**RATING:** R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**The Bound Man**

 

House can't sleep.

He shifts restlessly in his bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Tonight it's not only his leg that's hurting; his right wrist still aches with a dull intensity, and he'd actually had to switch cane hands for a while today to relieve some of the pressure. Cameron had caught him that afternoon, settling an icepack on it. He'd chased her away by claiming he had sprained it during a particularly enthusiastic bout of hot sex with the person he loved most. He smiles a little, remembering the sequential looks of understanding, horror, and disgust that had crossed her face before she'd turned on her heel and stomped off.

At least Wilson's asleep; he can hear the light snores, filtered through Wilson's battered nasal passages. House shifts again. He tries to ignore the tiny voice in the back of his mind, but the voice keeps pestering him, asking the same question over and over again.

_Did Wilson tell you **everything?**_

"Yes," House grumbles to himself, and turns over.

Undeterred, the voice persists. _Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure? Because that was a hell of a scare two nights ago when he was raving about being poisoned by a goddamn milkshake. And this morning? He would've broken your wrist in another minute. What the fuck was that about?_

"PTSD," House mumbles. He's perfectly aware that he's carrying on a conversation with his own mind, but that's okay. Wilson's asleep so he'll talk to somebody else who's intelligent enough to keep up.

 _ **Duh** , PTSD,_ the voice retorts. _Any idiot knows that. You've got the Post and the Disorder; all you need now is that last missing chunk of Traumatic Stress. Something else happened. He was gagged so he couldn't cry out and **something else happened.**_

"He was dreaming," House replies. "He was having a nightmare. This morning he was having a flashback. Christ, who wouldn't after an ordeal like that?"

 _An ordeal that was your fault,_ the voice whispers.

"Shut up. How was I to know Georgie Reno would turn out to be such a hardass?"

_Or that **he** would be in Georgie's employ?_

House is silent for a long moment. "Yeah. That too."

The voice leaves him alone, and House begins to think it's gone away.

_He was poisoned._

House groans. "He was not poisoned. You saw the tox screen."

 _He was poisoned,_ the voice asserts. _You just don't want to admit it to yourself._

"Shut up," House says again.

 _He poisoned Wilson,_ the voice says softly, _because Martin poisons everything he touches._

"He didn't touch Wilson. He was the only one who didn't."

_How do you know?_

"Wilson would've told me."

_Like he told you about the gag? The same way you told, when you were fourteen?_

"Not the same thing," House growls.

 _He **was** poisoned,_ the voice says, circling back. _And you know it, because you know Martin._

"Yeah." House mutters into the pillow, muffling his voice. "I know Martin. Aren't I the lucky one."

* * *

House opens his eyes.

Martin is a few feet away. His back is to House, but it doesn't matter because House would recognize that tall, lanky form anywhere. There's someone else there too, a half-naked man, bound to a post.

House watches from the shadows, fascinated, as Martin nips with sharp teeth at the bound man's throat and then bites down hard. The man cries out, but the sound is muffled by his gag. The man tries to struggle, but his wrists are cuffed above his head and his pants and underwear are around his ankles; he's unable to resist as Martin wraps one large hand around his jaw and inexorably forces his head back. Martin's other hand grasps the back of the man's neck and pulls him closer, holding him tight as Martin's mouth battens onto the bound man's throat like some hideous human leech.

House squints; there's something familiar about this scene, some awful sense of deja vu, almost as if he's seen this in a bad horror film ...

Someone's told him about this, about being chained to a post, defenseless. Except it wasn't a movie. It was Wilson.

Wilson is the bound man.

House starts forward. He has to stop Martin, make him stop right now — 

A bird calls. It's a trilling, slurred _konk-la-reeeeee!_ sound, and House recognizes it immediately. It's a red-winged blackbird, a bird you'd find slipping sideways, perching on a bobbing cattail. A cattail beside a creek, near a sunlit meadow. A place he and Martin and the other boy were, thirty-three years ago, when he'd stood and watched then too.

He shuts down the tiny part of his brain that's screaming at him, telling him this isn't right, he needs to stop this. _But I could never stop Martin, once he had a victim firmly in his grasp. I couldn't save them. It was useless to even try._

Martin has Wilson's jaw and neck in a vise-like grip and is sucking relentlessly, pulling the life from him.

House watches, frozen. The only sounds in the room are Martin's obscenely wet sucks and swallows, Wilson's low moans as he's slowly bled to death, and that damn blackbird singing its burbling song. Wilson's still trying to fight, but he's weakening rapidly. His knees give out even as House watches, and he sags in Martin's grip. House takes an involuntary step forward.

Martin hears him, and lifts his mouth at last from Wilson's torn throat. House stares, hypnotized. Martin's lips and teeth are smeared red, and Martin is young again. So is House. His leg doesn't hurt anymore, and Martin grins at him.

The red-winged blackbird has fallen silent.

"Remember, Greg," he says, and how long has it been since House has heard that youthful voice, the voice of his brother in all but name? "Remember, Sherlock, you and me together? All the fun we had? We can do anything. We can rule the world." Wilson tries to stir, and Martin calmly tightens his stranglehold on Wilson's throat. He nods at the blood coursing freely down Wilson's neck. "Come on," Martin coaxes. "You're just like me; you always have been. You know you want this. We can do this every night."

House stands still. _Sherlock. And I used to call him —_

"Mycroft," House says, and Martin smiles again, eyes bright with sly appreciation. 

"See? You do remember. You always were an avid student." He licks for a moment at Wilson's throat, starting at the tip of Wilson's collarbone and tracing a path all the way up to the delicate curving shell of his right ear. "You learned well. You've sucked this one almost dry already. Finish him off."

House walks forward to stand by his friend. His big brother. The one who'd always looked out for him, who'd always been there.

The one who had never left.

The iron-rich stink of blood is thick in the air.

Martin's right. Martin was always right.

"My turn," House says, and leans in. Wilson's body trembles suddenly, and he makes a gargling, coughing sound. House stops. The sound comes again; House glances up at Wilson's face, and realizes he can see all of it. Wilson's gag is gone. His jaw is wired shut.

He turns to Martin, puzzled.

And finds himself looking into his own face, his lips smeared crimson with Wilson's blood.

* * *

House's eyes snap open and he bolts upright in bed. His leg objects but he ignores it.

_No! God no! I'm not him, I'm not him —_

He's shaking and gasping for breath. For a moment he thinks he's still dreaming; he can distinctly hear the choking, coughing sounds of Wilson dying. The sounds get louder, and House realizes they're coming from the bathroom down the hall.

He swings out of bed and grabs his cane. 

When he switches on the bathroom light, Wilson is on his knees, bent over the toilet. Puking his guts out.

Trying to vomit up Martin's poison.  
&nbsp


	36. Aftershocks 16.4: Land Mines

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** It had to happen. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  
 ****

  
****  
Land Mines** **

****

 

****Wilson's moving more and more slowly, fighting something he can't see, something dark that winds itself around him, pulling at him, tripping him. He tries, but he can't run fast enough. He can't run at all. He can barely walk.

The monster is a black hulking shape in a black room. It's an indistinct, sinister suggestion of a form, sliding toward him in his peripheral vision. If he looks straight at it he sees absolutely nothing. It overtakes him, guiding its actions by feel, holding him, silently mocking his frantic efforts to escape. He feels his hands being pulled above his head, feels the thick, soft circles of wool around his wrists. _Not again. Got to get away. Not again, oh please, not again._

He can't speak, can barely even breathe; his broken nose is swollen mostly shut and his mouth is stuffed with what feels like yards of silk. The only thing he can see is that very faint, thin blue light of the small TV screen, as distant and cold as a star. Its face has turned away from him, and there are no other faces in the room. There is no one to see what is happening.

There's only Wilson and the monster, which begins to caress Wilson's stomach. Its touch feels like the legs of a spider.  It will bite him, paralyze him and its venom will eat him from the inside out. Suddenly, instead of the shearling cuffs, he's caught in miles of fierce webbing, and it's getting in his nose and in his eyes. It's getting in his mouth, pulling ever more tightly, forcing the silk gag back until he chokes. The more Wilson thrashes, the more helplessly he's trapped.

He can't move at all by the time the creature begins to feed, the same way that it did before.

Wilson cries out, convulsing into consciousness. He's going to be sick again. It's far too late to stop the reaction, the churning in his gut and the metallic taste in the back of his mouth. He'll be lucky to get to the toilet in time.

They've been keeping a dim lamp lit, and the pair of nippers on the table beside his bed. Wilson grabs for them, fumbling to grip them properly with his clumsy and shaking right hand. He manages to cut the elastics _—_ and the inside of his cheek _—_ as he rushes to the bathroom. Sick and sore though he is, the panic makes him move faster than he has since he was taken. Adrenaline will do that.

He doesn't call for House. He doesn't want House to see him like this again. House will demand answers this time, and Wilson might tell him, and there are some things House simply does not need to know. Not ever.

There's no time to find the light switch in the bathroom. Wilson drops to his knees at the toilet bowl and lets the rest of the universe blink out of existence. He's there for two minutes, or maybe it's ten, wracked with cramps and spasms. The dream is still with him, clinging to him like that sticky, unyielding web. Clinging like that memory, that thing he can still feel as if it just happened. The thought makes him retch again, while every muscle and bone in his torso cries out in protest.

So engulfed is he in sickness and pain that he does not question it when the light turns on. It's not until the worst is over that it dawns on him: House. House is there, and has been there for a while (how long?), standing and watching. Wilson hadn't thought that his gut could hurt any more than it already did, but he'd been mistaken.

"You need to go in?"

"No hoshpital," Wilson whispers through his teeth. It hurts to move his jaw, even with the elastics cut. The taste of vomit is strong in his mouth and he's salivating, drooling as his body tries to get rid of it. He spits, and wipes his chapped lips with toilet paper. "Not _crazy_ this time," he says. "I know I wasn' poisoned."

"Yes you were," says House. Wilson glances up. House is a mess, his shirt rumpled, a pair of sweat pants on and no shoes. House is usually a light sleeper; Wilson knows that he never really stood a chance of riding this out alone. He looks down as House approaches. "You were. Poisoned." There's a strange edge to House's tone, the sound of his relentless mind putting things together. Wilson is not ready to deal with House's contempt or his disgust or  _—_ if it even exists  _—_ his pity.

"Go back to bed, House," he croaks. It's useless. House won't do that. He won't quit, not while there's a puzzle to solve. Instead of leaving, he rummages beneath the sink vanity, bringing forth a plastic cup that he fills with tap water and hands to Wilson. 

"You told me everything," House says. It's a question even if he doesn't phrase it that way.

Wilson nods in misery and busies himself with rinsing the bitter acid out of his mouth. It might be all right if House would just leave, but he isn't moving an inch. Wilson's sunk, oh _God_ he's sunk. He can't look at House, and House will know that means he's hiding something. He's already told about the beatings and the piss and all of that, so there should be no reason for this reaction. There should be no reason he can't look up.

"You're lying," says House, but he's speaking so softly that it's not an accusation. It's a simple statement of fact. Wilson glances sideways and sees House leaning hard on the bathroom vanity, looking down at his hands. His right wrist bears a band of bruises and three small cuts where Wilson's nails broke the skin. The sight makes Wilson feel sick again. How many more nightmares, flashbacks, bouts of vomiting will it take before House connects the dots?

"I was _fourteen_ ," House says, his voice cracking faintly, like dry leaves. "I was _—_ " he damn near chokes; he's trying to breathe, trying so hard that Wilson has to look up just to see if House is all right. House is not all right, but the problem isn't medical. It's as if there are cold spirits snaking around his shoulders, constricting him. "I ..." House forces the words out, " _... saw_. What he  _—_ something that he _—_ "

_Oh, shit._ _Something that he **did**._ This is _so_ not good. This is House, and there aren't many things that could do this to House. Not much could _possibly_ have screwed House up this bad, and Wilson doesn't want to think about what that means. Either House saw Grey Eyes kill someone or  _—_ or _—_

" _Wilson._ " That tone means _Look at me_.

He gives up fighting this; he's far too sick, and House's wrist is all bruised and he will figure it out anyway, if he hasn't already. Wilson can carry a great many lies, but this one is too heavy and it is crushing him. It requires far more strength than he has. 

He looks up at House, letting his pretense fall away, ready to drop the whole damn thing  _—_ every ounce of humiliation and horror  _—_ on the floor at House's feet. House's eyes are searching him over, taking in his posture, reading him. The question House isn't asking is very, very clear.  __

__Wilson nods once, his whole face contorting around this horrible truth. For a moment he wonders whether he has interpreted things properly, and whether House in turn will understand.

Then he doesn't have to wonder anymore. House picks up his cane in both hands, like a sledgehammer, and brings it down so hard that it breaks in two across the bathroom countertop. He's gone from the bathroom before all the splinters have even come to rest on the floor. Wilson's too smart and in far too much pain to try following. He sits still, shuts his eyes and listens.

_**FUCK!** God **damn** you, you fucking soulless god damn _ _—_

There's a crash from the closet, the sound of House knocking over the basket of canes as he grabs a replacement for the one he just broke. His steps make a wild staccato rhythm, moving back through the hall. He's unleashing curses like machine-gun fire. Wilson has always known that there was this kind of anger buried inside House, but he's never witnessed it before, not like this. The dark rage that came after the infarction was just as strong but not ... not the same. This is on a whole different spectrum.

_—_ _fucking viper, mother fucking bastard son_ (things are being thrown; there's a shattering of glass) _of a **bitch!**  
_  
This would be frightening, but Wilson knows who House is cursing at. Something else crashes and shatters. Wilson's pretty sure it's a lamp, and House is shouting at its ruined remains.

_Psycho fucking freak of nature, you want_ _—_

The words get harder to distinguish; House is moving swiftly around the apartment, his voice dropping in volume but not in intensity.

_—_ _**not** your fucking brother and I won't _ _—_

__Wilson hears what he's certain is a fist hitting a wall, and he cringes.

_—_ _friends with Jeffrey fucking **Dahmer** , you fucking rapist piece of _—

And then it stops, and there's only a muffled noise of House's painful footfalls, and then nothing. _Rapist_ , thinks Wilson, and his mind fills with static. He has no idea how long he's been sitting there, strangely both hurting and numb at the same time, simply existing where he is. He's drifting in limbo, only half aware of House's return to the bathroom.

"Get up, Wilson," House says, and it's easily the gentlest order House has ever given him. He can't seem to move, though. House steps closer. "Wilson. Get up." It's gentle, yes, but this is still House and it'll be easiest to just do as he says. There's a blurred shape in Wilson's peripheral vision and he realizes it's House's hand, held out and waiting.

Wilson decides that he can do this. Although it's going to be painful, he starts to comply. His left arm's useless, wrapped in the sling, so he stretches out his right. House supports it and that helps. Wilson's not steady but at least he can stand. Funny; he can't feel his feet anymore. He knows he's sick and that he hurts, but he can't feel much of anything other than House's hand, which is holding onto his elbow.

"Look at me."

Wilson raises his head. What he sees in House's face is not useless sympathy, but hard, solid knowledge. House is giving him somewhere to focus, pulling him back to reality. "Wilson," he says, checking to see whether anyone is _there_. "You don't belong on your knees."

Wilson makes himself reply, and his words are strangled, like he's still got that damn handkerchief stuffed in his mouth.  "I — wasn't." He sees House stiffen, waiting. "Not me," and his voice is dry and thick and he can barely breathe. " _He_ —"

It's all Wilson can choke out, and it's enough. House's arm stretches lightly across his shoulders. House is making certain not to hurt him, not to apply any pressure to the fractured collarbone. He's leaving space between them, enough space to bring a hand to Wilson's throat and rest it there. It's a bizarre gesture, but Wilson's too far gone to question it. The touch feels protective, accepting. He leans forward, and House's hand shifts and curves around the back of his neck. Wilson can barely remember the last time anyone embraced him. The pain is returning as the shock recedes, but he doesn't care. He puts his good arm around House and simply holds on.  
 **  
**  


 


	37. Aftershocks 16.5: Shrapnel

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** What a mess. **  
****CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
  


  
**  
Shrapnel**

 

They let go of each other when Wilson looks down and notices something.

"Yer _bleeding_ ," he says. House follows his gaze and makes a soft noise of irritation. The blood is coming from his left foot, and apparently it's been like this for a while. There's a broken red trail leading into the bathroom, and the floor where House is standing looks sort of like a child's finger-painting.

House puts the lid down on the toilet, and then slides open a drawer and digs out a pair of tweezers. He sits down and proceeds to extract a shard of glass from his sole. Wilson, meanwhile, bends awkwardly over the sink, trying to lean at just the right angle so that his damaged spine will stop screaming at him.

"I'm an idiot," House gripes, while stuffing toilet paper between his toes to absorb the blood. Wilson doesn't argue.

"You're th' king. First aid kit?" Things are only getting worse; Wilson can hardly stand up straight. His back, collarbone and jaw are all competing for the title of Most Painful Injury.

"You need morphine," House remarks, as he levers himself to his feet. "Go lie down. Oh, and Wilson?"

Wilson raises an eyebrow at him. __

__"Watch your step."

Wilson snorts, and that hurts too — his throat and sinuses are so raw — but it's good to think of something _else_ , something other than _that_. He hobbles out of the bathroom, stooped over and moving at a snail's pace, doing his best to avoid both the glass and the bloody footprints. 

This time, he thinks, House will have to clean up the mess himself.

 

* * *

The first aid kit is on the floor between Wilson's bed and the sofa. Wilson stretches out oh so carefully on the bed, forcing himself not to moan and whimper the way he would if he were alone. He wonders how long it will be before getting up and lying down are once again thoughtless motions, taken for granted.

It occurs to him that House has not taken these things for granted for several years now.

He shuts his eyes and listens to House rummaging for bandages, tearing open a packet of gauze, ripping a length of tape off the roll.

"I'm not feeding you oral meds," House says. "Don't trust you not to projectile vomit all over my apartment."

"I might as well." Wilson opens his eyes long enough to glance around the place. "Complete the new decor style. Th' 'drunken rampage' theme's really hot now. Damn," Wilson moans, shutting his eyes again. " _Damn_. Hurts. Hurry up."

"God, you're bitchy. Remind me to sedate you." There's the sound of House moving around and then a distinctive, soft metallic squeak. He's getting the IV stand. Wilson's eyes fly open.

"What?! I don't _need_ that. Be fine. Need meds and —  _aaaah!_ " Wilson's back muscles spasm, cutting off his thought in mid-sentence. 

"Yeah. You'll be fine, the way you always are. Until you're not." There's a black bag slung over House's arm. That'd be the Ringer's solution in there, and the tube and cannula. "You know how much you hate it that I take pills and don't drink water?" says House. "Turns out, I'm a hypocritical bastard. Just like you."

Fighting House would be senseless, even if Wilson had the energy. He's so tired, his stomach still aches, and House is right. There's not much chance that he could keep down anything that he drank, and he does need the fluids and electrolytes. _And morphine. Don't forget the morphine, House_. He shouldn't worry about that, really. If there's one thing House will always keep in mind, it's the need for drugs.

Without further protest, Wilson stretches out his arm.

 

* * *

When it's done — the cannula inserted into a vein on the back of Wilson's hand, and a bolus of morphine injected through the IV port — House raises a hand above Wilson's stomach and waits. This is part of their routine, House's sign language for _I need to check you over now_.

He knows that he hasn't done himself any real damage tonight, but he also knows House. He's too sore to sit up, so Wilson uses his right hand to scrunch the fabric of his t-shirt upward, baring his skin with all its bruises and incisions. They've done this many times, but Wilson's never felt as exposed as he does now. Perhaps he's always been this much at House's mercy, merely as the result of being his friend, but he's never been so aware of it before. 

He doesn't even know how much morphine House gave him. Rescue dosages are tricky to calculate, a matter of instinct and experience as much as science, and Wilson had simply let House do whatever he thought was best. Though that was certainly the right decision, it's still frightening how easily Wilson made it.

House's examination is thorough, and neither comfortable nor painful. By the time House is satisfied that there are no new signs of trouble, the morphine is taking a powerful, welcome hold.   
   
"We'll let the experts replace your rubber bands tomorrow," House tells him, "because you can't do it right-handed, and I am _not_ sticking my fingers in your mouth." Wilson's getting fuzzier by the second, so much so that he's only faintly surprised when House pulls the t-shirt back down, covering him first with that and then with the ever-present blankets.

"Thank God," Wilson sighs. "Hope you'd change your mind if I was choking to death," he mumbles.

"You're a doctor. You can Heimlich yourself." House unwinds a long elastic bandage. "Hold still," he commands, "and don't freak out." He wraps the bandage around Wilson's head, beneath his jaw, to keep it in place through the night. The coarse, stretchy fabric is so unlike silk that the only memory it triggers is that image of Jacob Marley's ghost. The support does make Wilson's jaw feel better, or maybe it's just the morphine. He'll take the relief, either way.

House settles back on the couch, remote in hand, and clicks on the Magic Box of Forgetfulness. They're in time to catch the second half of an episode of _The X-Files_. The last thing Wilson hears is Scully trying to rationally explain why frogs just rained down from the sky.

 

* * *

Wilson wakes up with the single remaining, unbroken lamp still lighting the living room. The clock on the bedside table indicates that it's almost four in the morning. House is passed out on the sofa. He looks for all the world like a drowned sailor washed up on the shore, and for a moment Wilson can't quite recall which one of them is hurt.

It's absurd, and probably pathetic, but he's glad he's here with House. He'd been furious when House walked into his hospital room and decreed that this was the plan. It had seemed that House's decision was tyrannical, selfish, and grossly inconsiderate.

Of course, at the time Wilson had been lying in the hospital for days with little to do other than stew in his anger at House. Had he been consulted about the move, he'd have told House to go straight to hell. House would have expected that kind of response, so he didn't ask. Instead he had operated on his default premise, which was that it was easier to get forgiveness than permission — especially from Wilson.

House had done what he felt was right, knowing that he'd get his way because Wilson's anger wouldn't last. It hadn't.  It never does, not even when Wilson desperately wishes that it would. He can no more hold onto that feeling than he can pin down a wave on the seashore. Inevitably his rage slides backward, receding out of his grasp and then losing its form completely, its energy spent. House knows that about him, knows it well and counts on it.

The other thing House knows is that Wilson truly did not have any better option than this. The hotel — which he never wants to see again anyway — was obviously out of the question. He'd have been completely miserable had he stayed much longer in the hospital, and there was no one else he would have allowed to take him in. His parents, he thinks, would have driven him literally insane.

Had he stayed anywhere but here, he'd have had to lie constantly, sticking to his story about the mugging. There's no way he would have been able to do it.

It's a relief that, for the most part, he doesn't have to deal with anyone but House. And if _that_ isn't funny, then Wilson doesn't know what is.  
 

 


	38. Aftershocks 17.1: Home Alone

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** It's 10:30 in the morning and there's nothing on TV. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Home Alone**

 

It's 10:30 in the morning and there's nothing on TV. After flipping through the entire cable package, Wilson turns on the DVD player with a loud, huffing sigh. It's not like there's anyone around to hear him.

House had been paged to the hospital early this morning. He'd awakened Wilson at 6:15, his helmet tucked under his cane arm and an expression on his face that managed to both be apologetic and pissed off at having his sleep cut short. Wilson was vaguely aware of the IV line being removed, and he had mumbled something resembling "It's okay, House," before drifting back to sleep. And he'd slept surprisingly well, considering his face is wrapped up tight as a brand-new mummy. When he'd awakened a couple hours later, Wilson found a small bottle of ginger ale and two cans of Ensure chilling like fine wines in an ice bucket on the end table. A Post-It told him "Meds in Schweppes. Drink up, metalmouth." Since then he's downed all three beverages and made one trip to the bathroom.

Wilson scratches absently at his abdomen, only belatedly remembering that the itch is coming from the splenectomy incision. And now that he's scratched it, the itch gets deeper and more insistent, as if the healing tissue was suddenly reminded how angry it should be at what was done to it—pounded to a pulp, cut open, stapled shut, staples pulled out during his last hospital visit (how nice that he was _already there_ ). Wilson tries manfully to ignore it, and suddenly a host of other itches demand his attention: the collarbone; the left hand inside its brace itches both inside and out; the bruises along his thighs; his right big toe; above his left ear. He'd grit his teeth but they're already clamped together, so he scratches at his toe with his other foot and focuses on the TV. Oddly enough, the scratch to the toe seems to satisfy all the other itches, too, enough so they're dismissable.

No wonder House hadn't wanted to give his DVD player back—the 5-disc changer makes it possible to watch an entire season of _Kung Fu_ without getting up to change discs. Which is an excellent way to spend the day, especially after a night he'd rather not think about. Wilson turns on the captions and settles back. House hates captions, but House isn't here.

Wilson decides he rather likes the feeling of finally being by himself. On his own. Left to his own devices. In control of his own space.

That feeling lasts about an hour.

He starts to regret being alone when his stomach rumbles. Two cans of Ensure just aren't going to cut it, and he doesn't know how long House will be gone. Wilson looks longingly across the living room and into the kitchen. He can't see the blender; it must be tucked in next to the refrigerator. He _can_ see the bananas on the counter. He knows there's tofu and fruit and frozen yogurt in the fridge. There's also House's leftover fried chicken (better yet, he's pretty sure there's a couple boneless pieces in there) and mashed potatoes. If he added enough of the gravy and maybe a little milk and warmed it in the microwave and blended the shit out of it...Wilson's mouth starts watering and he has to tilt his head back and swallow to keep from drooling. It could work. It could be drinkable. Even if it's gross, it'll be _different_.

He rolls carefully out of bed and starts across the living room. Just as he reaches the kitchen doorway, the phone rings. And rings. He turns to watch the answering machine—there's no way he's picking the thing up.

House's voice comes through the little speaker. "Wilson, get up. You're going to have a knock on the door in about ten minutes. You're gonna want to open it." There's a clatter over the line as House hangs up his office phone as obnoxiously as possible, and then the machine beeps.

Wilson looks into the kitchen, then back toward the door. It won't take him ten minutes to shuffle over there, but there's not enough time to do anything in the kitchen, either. He decides to head for the door, and he spends five minutes leaning against the now half-empty bookshelf, thinking House had better not be messing with him.

As promised, the knock resounds through the apartment, loud and cadenced. _Shave and a haircut, two bits_. Trust House to forget to tell him about the secret knock.

He cautiously arranges himself behind the door and peers through the peephole. His eyes widen as he sees Jerry Watson taking up more than his fair share of the hallway. He smiles as best he can and steps back to pull the door open.

"Hey, Doc," Jerry says as he steps inside and closes the door behind him. He sets a backpack on the couch as he quickly surveys the apartment. "Daaamn, man. Doc House warned me I'd have to do a little picking-up, but he didn't tell me he was a slob."

Wilson looks around at the books strewn around the floor and the remains of the broken lamp in the corner. He wonders briefly if this is what House had come home to the night Tritter 'visited,' but he quickly corrals his thoughts in a different direction.

"We had a party," he says, and Jerry starts laughing.

"Don't worry, Doc, I'll get this cleaned up before I leave." Jerry strides down the hall and back, not-so-subtly checking the layout of the place. "Heard about your food poisoning. Must be a bitch barfing like that."

Wilson grunts, "Yeah." He turns and heads toward the bed. He needs to sit, and he needs to do it right now.

Jerry watches him closely, but Wilson knows he won't move to help until asked. It's one of his best attributes.

"You're moving pretty good, Doc," Jerry says as he follows Wilson. "You do your PT yet today?"

"Why're you here, Jherr?" Wilson asks as he scoots farther back onto the bed, a complicated process involving shifting weight between each ass cheek and his right arm.

The big nurse heads into the kitchen. "Doc House asked me to come," he says loudly, his voice reverberating.

Wilson snorts through his nose. He's rather pleased to discover that snorting doesn't hurt this morning, so he does it again. "House doesn' _ask_ for anythin'," he calls back.

"You hungry?" Jerry opens the fridge and surveys the contents. No doubt he's spotted the blender and the recipe binder. "Doc House said I needed to replace your elastics, but we can do that after you eat."

"Was gonna blen' up the chicken," Wilson replies.

Jerry turns and grins at him. "With the mashed potatoes and the gravy?"

Wilson shrugs as far as he can without disturbing anything. It isn't very far, but it's enough.

"That's...nasty." Jerry screws up his face, imagining the taste. Then he pulls the leftovers from the fridge. "But you're the boss." He opens the gravy container and then promptly puts everything in the microwave. At Wilson's look, he says, "It's all congealed. I'd rather _pour_ it."

"How much he pay you?" Wilson presses while the microwave runs.

Jerry fidgets a little, then asks, "When were your last meds?"

"Jherr."

The microwave dings, and Jerry busies himself with Wilson's fried chicken smoothie.

"You takin' a sick day? How much?" Wilson doesn't like to talk so much, especially with his face wrapped like this, but he can't believe House managed to get one of the more coveted nurses in the hospital to come make him lunch on company time.

The kitchen is filled with roaring as Jerry starts the blender. The powerful motor barely hesitates under its unusual load.

As soon as the apartment is silent again, Wilson says, "Jherry."

A cupboard bangs shut as Jerry retrieves a tall plastic cup. Exasperated, he says, "Yes, I'm taking a sick day, all right? Doc House called me this morning, _at home_ , said he'd pay cash for two hours of my time." He's blushing furiously as he drops a straw into the smoothie and hands it to Wilson.

"How much?"

Jerry looks sheepish, with the blush and a hunch of his shoulders that doesn't really do much to make him look any smaller. "Five hundred."

Wilson takes a sip of the smoothie to cover his shock, which works pretty well, given that the taste of the thing is rather shocking, too. It's salty, and creamy, and _warm_ , and it's weird and kinda gross but dear God, it's fantastic.

Jerry looks up at Wilson and spreads his hands wide. "The wife'll kill me if I use any more sick days, but I got a baby girl, Doc. Today's goin' in her college fund."

"Okay," he says and nods, just a little.

"You won't report me?"

"Wha's to report?" Wilson cocks an eyebrow and tries to look innocent. "Yer _sick_."

Jerry smiles and visibly relaxes. He nods, pointing his chin at the cup in Wilson's hand. "How is that?"

"Disgusting. An' delicious. Get me some milk?" The fried chicken smoothie might actually make him _full_ for a change; he can already feel the mashed potatoes sticking to his ribs, as Nana would say.

While Jerry's in the kitchen, he starts talking, as Jerry likes to do. "When Doc House called, I was shocked, I tell you. He asked, 'What'll get you to take a sick day today?', and I said, 'A thousand dollars.' I figured he was jokin' or something, but he said, 'A hundred,' and I went, 'Shit, he's _serious_ ,' so I said, 'Eight hundred,' 'cause I can't be all desperate, you know? And he said, 'Three,' and I said, 'Six,' and he went, 'Five,' and I said 'Done.'" He hands a glass of milk to Wilson and settles down on the couch to let him 'eat.' Jerry shrugs, his eyes sparkling. "I'd have probably done it for two, but I wanted to see how high he'd go."

Wilson smiles back, just a little around the straw. _Good for you, Jer,_ he thinks.

Jerry stands back up and starts picking up books from the floor. As he puts them back on the shelves, he says, "Did I tell you about my daughter? She's Princeton material, we can tell already..."

Two hours. Some PT, some meds, a weird lunch and a little of Jerry's rambling conversation. Wilson's surprised to discover he's actually looking forward to his day.  
 

  


	39. Aftershocks 17.2: Accounting

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Interest rate on repayment may lead to foreclosure ...  
**CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House  
**RATING:** R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Accounting**

 

Jerry Watson is a stubborn pain in the ass; that might in fact be why House had found him tolerable as a nurse. House had forgotten, but it's all coming back to him now. As he hangs up the phone, he wonders whether he could manage to get his money back. Maybe he could figure out a way to bill Wilson's insurance for the extra five hundred bucks.

He decides not to try. It'd be more trouble than it was worth. Anyway, what does he really care about a few more dollars, or a few hundred, after all this? It'll be no big deal, as long as Wilson doesn't find out how much House has just spent on him. Just for a couple lousy hours. Just so the two of them can have a break, put their scattered brains back together, and maybe not have any more discussions about god damn Martin fucking Grey.

He shouldn't even be thinking about that now. He has a case. Like most cases, though, it started with "hurry up" and now it's "hurry up and wait." Rule out everything it isn't until we can figure out what's left. Ruling things out takes time. House would take a nap if only his leg didn't feel like someone had attacked it with a machete. His destructive rage was well-earned, but he's paying for it anyway.

Coffee would be nice now: hot, soothing, and full of caffeine to boost the effect of his pills just a little. He wants coffee, and the coffee maker is all the way over there, and his left foot will throb with every step, as if the right thigh weren't bad enough. Damn shards of glass. Damn leg. Damn boredom. For _this_ , they woke him up before dawn?

He's about to drag his worthless carcass over to the coffeepot when — wonder of wonders — Cameron shows up.

"Ah! A lackey! Just what I wanted. Actually, no. What I _wanted_ was coffee, conveyed hither by the nearest available peon. That would be you."

"Good morning to you too."

"You're the one who woke me at five thirty to ... I can't seem to recall what you needed me to _do_. Come and tell you people to run a bunch of tests you already knew you'd need to run? Hold your hand while you told the patient we don't know what's killing her? Or did you just want to see if I'd rush over here in my jammies again, since you missed the show last time?"

"I —"

_"Coffee!"_

"But we —"

"Does this have any medical relevance?"

"It — _fine_ ," she huffs. She turns around and heads for the coffeepot, with that stiff, choppy walk she always falls into when she's offended. Hopefully she will be bright enough to just hand him his mug and then get out, save herself. The other two were wise enough to flee from him, and House was glad for it.

Cameron already seems less angry than concerned by the time she sets the coffee on his desk. Those worried little wrinkles are settling into place on her forehead.

_"Don't."_

She blinks and stares at him.

"You're about to ask me how I'm doing. You already know the answer, so don't." House picks up the mug and takes a big, long sip, washing back the horrible things he wants to say to her. "If you have any sense, you will go away and not come back until you have something _important_ to tell me." _You have approximately five seconds before you become a target._

Her mouth opens slightly, but then she thinks better of whatever it is that she wants to say. She scowls at him and turns to go.

"Cameron."

He has taught her pretty well, after all. She stops, turns only halfway back, and waits a moment.

"I did need this." He makes a slight gesture with the coffee mug.

"You're welcome," she says, and she's gone. He sighs over the mug, blowing steam across his hand and soothing the sore knuckles for a moment. Stupid thing to do. If he wanted to punch the wall he really should have thrown a left instead of using his cane hand. The plaster wouldn't have known what hit it either way.

He turns on his computer but only winds up staring at the screen. It would help if Chase and Foreman would hurry the hell up with those tests. The sooner he has fresh information, the sooner he can figure out what he doesn't know about the patient. As opposed to what he's doing now, thinking of what he _does_ know about Wilson.

 _And don't forget_ , says that irritating part of his brain that seems so prevalent lately, _all the things Wilson still doesn't know about you_.

House tells the voice to shut up, and tells his leg it's a bitch and he should just cut it off. The things Wilson doesn't know won't hurt him. More importantly, they won't hurt House either.

 

* * *

He doesn't intend to ever talk about Martin's phone call that night, when Martin let him hear what was happening.

He doesn't plan to ever tell Wilson that he spent that whole night on the motorcycle, riding in circles and tangents, searching for anything, _anything_ to tell him where to go. A star to follow, a falling meteor, or a hunch that would cause him to tail a particular car. House has never believed in any form of clairvoyance, but on that night he'd been certain that if he reached far enough, his mind could do the impossible: he'd find Wilson. Not that he'd have known what to do once he got there. It would've been insane to try. House has never owned a gun, and Martin and his thugs would've been very well armed. Still, he'd been determined. He'd think of something, if only he could get there, if only he could somehow —

He had wound up collapsed on a park bench, after getting so exhausted that he'd almost missed a curve on his bike and gone face-first into someone's garage. It was nearly dawn by then, and he managed only an hour's fitful sleep before the cop (God, he hates cops) accosted him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in that much pain; he'd been very glad for his ability to swallow his pills without water. This time, he waited and didn't take them until the cop went away.

From the start he had known there would be no point in searching. He wasn't sure if it was any more or less pathetic than the other option, which involved lying in a drunken stupor on the sofa where Wilson used to sleep. That was what he did the following night, after Wilson got out of surgery alive. By then, riding the bike was out of the question. The fatigue and grief, the guilt and Vicodin, would've conspired to kill him. He could've taken or left his own life just then, but who'd take care of Wilson?

He's trying now, but flexible straws and a bed in the living room are not going to be enough. The money he's paying Jerry is just one penny of a million dollar deficit. There's not enough gold in Fort Knox to repay what he owes Wilson, and his friend will be lost to him. It's just a matter of time. This poison is slow, insidious, the kind of thing you think you've banished until it seeps into your veins again and you find you're just as angry as you always were. It will do its job, just as Martin intended. As soon as he's well enough, Wilson will go. There are a dozen good reasons to get away from House, and House can't think of a single good reason to stay. _I'm sorry_ and _I need you_ do not count.

He thinks he'll never point out this obvious, painful inequity. Maybe if he doesn't, just maybe, James Wilson will — once again — choose to leave House's debts off the books. That hope is like a briar, thorny and tenacious, and he keeps hacking away at it, trying to kill it before it kills him. It springs back from the roots every time.

When the tangle is too much to handle, he goes riding or he goes to work. Either one will do.

"It's not lymphoma," says a soft Australian voice, coming in from the doorway, "but then you knew that."

"No sense gambling," House replies. The pills and the coffee are starting to help, finally. House checks his watch; it's still another couple hours before Jerry will show up to do the Wilson coddling for the day. It's worth five hundred dollars to not have to be there right now. House is a bastard, but he's sick of it. He needs to spend some time working on a problem he can actually solve.  
 

 


	40. Aftershocks 18.1: Role Reversal

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Didn't you used to be someone else?  
**CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House, OFC  
**RATING:** R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**Role Reversal**

 

House has become Wilson's father, and if that's not some weird Freudian shit, then Wilson hasn't been smoking enough cigars or watching enough trains go into tunnels.

House stands there, feet planted solidly on the floor, leaning on his cane, saying, "You're not getting the keys to the car. Not the Volvo, not the 'Vette. No way are you ready to drive yet."

"House ... " Wilson's sitting up on the edge of his bed; he already knows he's going to lose this argument and right now that hurts almost as much as everything else. 

He's never been this helpless, so dependant on others before, and it's got him twisted up in knots inside because it's not supposed to be this way. _He's_ the helper, the fixer, the one who takes care of those in need. Now he doesn't even know where the car keys are.

"Nope," House is saying. "I can see it now—you'd take your right hand off the wheel to hit the turn signal, drift into another lane and get creamed by a Hummer."

Wilson is tempted to flop back on the bed and say _Oh, dad!_ , but there's a headache rapidly developing behind his left eye and so all he says is "cab."

"No." House's tone is flat and absolutely final, and Wilson stares at him. "No cabs. No ... " and Wilson has the sudden, unshakable certainty that the next word is going to be "strangers," but House simply turns away and pulls the keys to the Volvo from his jeans pocket, where they've been hidden the entire time.

* * *

The drive to the rehab center is made in sullen silence; Wilson knows House spent all day yesterday diagnosing a patient who'd turned out to have a simple staph infection. House is still on call today, but he's left work early and turned his pager off in order to ferry Wilson to this appointment. 

At the center, Wilson is momentarily discomfited to hear that he'll be seeing Shoshana Weinstein. The name from the past startles him, but then he shrugs. The hits just keep on coming. He even manages to smile when she comes through the door; it collapses quickly into a wince, but she doesn't seem to notice.

It hurts even to smile these days.

"Dr. Wilson," Shana says, and her voice is just the way he remembered it—cool and husky, with a faintly lilting quality that wraps itself around your heart like smoke. She looks pretty much the way he remembers, too—all planes and angles, with her dark hair cut short like a wild animal's pelt and her deep green eyes watching his every move.

Strangers sometimes think she's a _sabra_ , but Wilson knows she's a Midwestern girl from East Sandusky.

"Sh'shnna." With his jaws clamped shut, her name comes out all "zhh"s and softly slurred, the way it might be pronounced if she really was an Israeli. "Thot you wen' back t'school."

And this is something else he knows—she _did_ go back to school, back to Tufts to get her Master's in Occupational Therapy. 

"It's been fun, James," she'd said, kissing him on the cheek. "I hope you find whoever you're looking for." He'd wondered if he should ask her to marry him, but it was already too late. Then Julie had come along, and that had been that.

Shana smiles at him, amused. "I did," she says. "And then I came back here. I'm the Assistant Director of this clinic." 

_Assistant Director._ Wilson feels like he's sinking in quicksand. _Means she doesn't have to do this. God, save me from people taking a personal interest in me._

She laughs when she catches his look and guesses immediately what he's thinking.

"Don't worry," she says. "I'm not going to be your regular therapist. I heard on the news about your ... about what happened, and I wanted to see for myself how you're doing." That said, she runs a critical eye over him. Wilson submits quietly, knowing what she's seeing—a guy who's paid a visit to a dark corner of Hell and lived to tell about it. After a while she shakes her head, just a little.

"I've seen worse," she says at last, and Wilson wants to bark out _"Where, the morgue?"_

She's opening his folder and the moment passes. "You're staying with someone?" she asks.

Wilson looks at his hands. "A fren'," he replies softly. "Dr. Greg House."

Shana's right eyebrow twitches up. "The big guy in the waiting room? With the cane? Looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here?"

"You ... know him?" He's genuinely surprised; he'd always believed Shoshana was one of his few lovers whose existence he had managed to keep a secret from House's prying eyes. Of course, that had been the old days, the B.G. days. The days before House had realized he needed to keep a tighter leash on him.

"I know _of_ him," she says. She's silent, reading one of the reports. "Looks like Dr. Tomlinson did a great job on your left hand," she murmurs, then shuts the file. "But with it still in that brace we'll have to concentrate on your right to begin with."

Wilson nods. It's what he'd expected.

"You're probably fine for large gripping tasks—picking things up, opening jars." She holds out her hands. "Let's see how much strength is there."

He raises his arm, grimacing a little at the pull in his back muscles. Shana's hands are large, like House's, her fingernails cut short and filed smooth, and as she takes his right hand in hers he can feel the tendons and ligaments underneath the skin, and the rough calluses from years of showing patients how to grip the rubberized handles of therapy weights.

"Squeeze," she commands, and Wilson squeezes, feeling the bones shift in both her hands and his. He wonders for just a moment if this is what House's hand would feel like.

Shana nods. "Good," she pronounces. "It's the fine motor control most people have problems with. Have you ever tried signing your name with your right hand?" 

_No, but House has,_ Wilson almost says, but Shana's already moving on.

"I don't foresee any complications," she concludes. "We'll set up a schedule right away." She smiles then, an open smile, full of warmth and remembered affection.

"It's been good to see you, James," she says. "I wish it were under better circumstances, but perhaps when you've recovered a little more we could meet again. Rosh Hashanah, maybe—celebrate the New Year, hope it's a little sweeter than the last. I'm sure my partner would love to meet you."

Startled, Wilson glances instinctively at her left hand. No ring. When he looks back up, Shana's eyes are crinkled with humor, and for the first time he notices the tiny crow's-feet in the corners.

"My partner," Shana repeats. "Dina Fedorov. She teaches at the university—Latin Prose Composition and Latin Poetry of the Empire." 

"Um," Wilson says.

Shana cocks her head, grins at him. "You could bring Dr. House along, if you like."

"Um," Wilson says again, helplessly.

Shana takes it in stride. "Think about it," she says. "It really was good to see you again." And with the lightest brush of soft lips against his forehead, she's gone.

* * *

"How'd it go? You were in there long enough."

House is out-of-sorts from waiting, and he settles himself into the Volvo's driver's seat with a long-suffering sigh.

"Fine," Wilson mumbles. "Wen' fine." He pauses a beat. "We're 'nvited to a party. In th'fall."

House stares at him. "What?" he says. "You've moved on from nurses, now you're picking up occupational therapists?"

Wilson schools his face into as innocent an expression as possible, and after a moment House grunts and shoves the key into the ignition.

"All I can say is they better be hot," he grumbles.

Wilson looks out the window to hide his smile. 

They'll be home soon.

 


	41. Aftershocks 19.1: The Observer

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Chase puts in a few unusual hours. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, Chase, House. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
 **  
**

  
**  
The Observer**

 

House's place is remarkably clean, but it's dim in there. There aren't enough lamps; the darkness is going to make poor Wilson even more depressed. Chase remembers this, the way it looks in a house where someone's falling apart.

He quietly steps to the window to let in a bit more light, but stops as Wilson says, "Don't."

Immediately he understands. Safety, shut blinds, locked doors. A little agoraphobia is probably to be expected, for a while.

"Light makes m'head hurt," explains Wilson, and it's all right if they both know that he's lying. "So House sent you on Wils'n duty, mm? 'S not much fun. Sorry." Wilson's sitting in that semi-reclined position in his bed, trying hard to look as if he's content, as opposed to hurting, tired, and bored out of his mind.

"Don't be," Chase replies. "I needed a break from him. So what's on daytime television these days? I never get to watch any."

"Not missin' much." Wilson hands him the remote and Chase tries to focus on the faint gleam of humor in his eyes, rather than the healing cuts on his brow, the splint on his nose and the bruises that still remain along his jaw. This does _not_ look like the Wilson he knows, except for those eyes, warm as ever but darker now than they used to be. Something's been taken from this man, and there's no way to say if he'll ever get it back. Chase has some idea about how that feels. He starts to flip channels and finds that Wilson's right. There's nothing to watch, and they're watching anyhow.

"Look," says Wilson, "this' weird. I know. W'd you get me a Coke?" Chase is glad to have something useful to do, so he goes.

It's astounding, what's in House's fridge these days. The Coke isn't a surprise, but the couple dozen bottles of water are. There are also cans of Ensure, six-packs of V8, and enough fresh fruit to operate a New Age smoothie stand. Mangoes, berries, peaches, pears, and every flavor of yogurt imaginable. There's whole milk, chocolate milk, and a huge plastic jar of protein powder, the kind bodybuilders use, which is sort of funny.  He snorts softly at the thought of Wilson mixing protein shakes.

On the counter top there's a bunch of bananas, a big jar of peanut butter, and an old-fashioned Waring blender. Chase blinks at that, because he knows it's expensive and he knows who must have bought it. Wilson would've gotten some plastic Black & Decker thing with 37 useless settings. This is enameled steel, glass and chrome; simple, heavy and solid. And it's new—Chase spots the empty box sitting near the kitchen trash can. He stops his curious mental inventory and brings Wilson the bottle of Coke.

"So it seems he's feeding you as well as possible," Chase says, "which is—weird, since that usually seems to work the other way 'round."

Wilson snorts and gratefully drinks. He tips back his head and Chase notices how much the lines of his face have sharpened. He must have lost fifteen pounds. It's an inescapable side effect of the wires.

"We could do this the polite way," he says, and Wilson gives him a mute, questioning look. "I could offer food, and you could lie and tell me you aren't hungry. Then after I left, you would have to make it yourself, because who knows when House is going to get back. And I know that you're capable, but it's stupid. Just tell me what you want."

"Steak, medium rare," quips Wilson, who seems more articulate now that his mouth is no longer dry. "I'm starving." He leafs through a small notebook on the bedside table and presents Chase with a recipe. It's amazing, thinks Chase, how well this tactic of bluntness works. Everyone always looks to Wilson, trying to figure out how to handle House, but they don't consider what House knows about dealing with Wilson.

Chase blends everything up and takes a taste. It's not bad, really, but it sure isn't steak. The recipe involves bananas, peanut butter, protein powder, milk, heavy cream, and Nestle's Quik. Apparently Wilson's weight loss has been noticed. Of course it's been noticed. House notices everything.

On his way back through the living room, Chase pays more attention. He realizes that there are stacks of journals, magazines, and books of all kinds on House's shelves. It looks as if House has pillaged the local Barnes & Noble. The subject matter ranges from the _New England Journal of Medicine_ to paperbacks of Isaac Asimov. Chase hands the banana shake to Wilson and settles himself on the edge of the sofa, but he keeps looking around. There are even a couple of _Captain Underpants_ books and three volumes of something called _Mad Libs_. Wilson's laptop is in easy reach, on the hinged tray table that's attached to the left side of the bed. The other table, to the right of the bedside, holds pain meds, more books, remote controls, and a tube of _Incredible Hulk_ lip balm. It's watermelon-flavored and it's green. The cap is missing, probably because Wilson can only use one hand. The coffee table is clear except for a pile of red Netflix envelopes.

"You're right," Chase says, tapping his foot. "it's boring here. Not as boring as the hospital, but still. What's a _Mad Lib_?"

Wilson swallows his sip of liquid lunch and adjusts the straw so that he can talk. "Word game. House bought it 'cause he's tireda me beatin' 'im at Trivial Pursuit."

"You play Trivial Pursuit?" Chase feels himself truly smiling for the first time since he got here. "Up for a round?"

"You don' hafta work?"

"I quote: 'Go. Fetch and carry; entertain, amuse, and cater. I'll whistle when I need you.' Who am I," Chase asks lightly, "to defy _him?_ "

Wilson smiles crookedly and nods toward the piano, where a familiar dark blue box sits on the bench. Chase surveys the apartment once more as he gets up to fetch and carry, entertain and amuse. He was wrong, he thinks. He'd been looking at this place through the smoky old lens his mother left him. Wilson's not falling apart in here at all.

 

* * *

"So how's House treating his hostage?" asks Foreman, the moment Chase gets back. He's prepared for this interrogation, having seen the looks his coworkers gave him when House sent him out on this mission. He wonders if this is sort of how House feels every day, bracing himself against everyone's concern. Against their suspicions. Cameron hasn't said anything yet, but her pointed look echoes Foreman's question, while also implying that _she_ would take better care of Wilson than House possibly could. Chase knows better. Put Wilson in Cameron's care, and they'd find him dead of well-meaning suffocation within twenty-four hours.

"He's fine," replies Chase, trying to put into his tone all the weariness he already feels. They blink at him. "Well, considering, of course. But it isn't a torture chamber in there," he says, and heads for the coffeemaker. "Despite what you seem to think, House is—"

"Starving him to death.  Making him watch re-runs of _Saved by the Bell_!" barks House, and they all startle because they hadn't seen him come in. _Saved by the bell, indeed_ , Chase thinks. He breathes a quiet sigh as House sends the other two out to check their new patient's home. House is especially interested in anything that could've caused heavy metal poisoning. "And I don't mean her brother's Iron Maiden collection," he snaps, throwing the keys at them. "Oh, don't give me that look. I got _permission_ this time," he whines, in that special pitch he reserves for mocking Cameron. "But it'll be way more fun if you pretend that I didn't."

Chase waits, patiently sipping his coffee while House pours a cup for himself. It looks as if the man hasn't slept in a week, and Chase remembers how it was after he found his mother's body, the nightmares he had. He can barely imagine what it's like for Wilson. Or what it's like for House, to have to be there and watch it happening.

"So, _talk_ to me," House demands. "Obviously _you_ made it out of there alive."

"Barely. He thrashed me soundly at Trivial Pursuit." There's a flash of relief, the faintest hint of a smile from House.

"Foolish child," he intones, "Wilson is the God of Useless Information. You made sure he ate something?"

"Food for the gods," Chase assures him, and House breaks into an unfamiliar song:

_"She put me throooough some changes, Lord; sort of like a Waring blender ..."_

Chase blinks at him in curiosity, and House heaves a frustrated sigh. "Warren _Zevon_ , you ignorant kid. _Werewolves of London?_ "  That means nothing to Chase, though it sounds somewhat interesting.  "Z-e-v-o-n. Look it up. There'll be a quiz tomorrow morning." With that, House wheels and careens out the door, howling out what Chase guesses is more of the same tune. _"Poooor, poor, pitiful me. Poor poor pitiful ..."_

He shakes his head and goes to visit their current patient. Maybe he can spot something that everyone else has missed. It's been known to happen.  



	42. Aftershocks 19.2: John Hancock

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** "A" is for apple ...  
 **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**John Hancock**

 

Wilson holds the pen in his right hand with all the concentrated awkwardness of a five-year-old.

That's what the letters look like too—scrawled in rickety black lines across the notepad, a child's first effort at printing his name.

The ballpoint is thick and clumsy in his fingers; a cheap freebie from House's insurance agent, it's got tiny advertisements encased in clear plastic all around the barrel. Its thickness works in Wilson's favor—although his usual preference is for Cross pens, slender as an old-fashioned cigarette holder, this wider girth is easier for him to grasp.

He presses his tongue against his front teeth and tries again.

The crossbar at the top of the "J" is too short, the downstroke a wavering, palsied line. "M"s and "s"s are particularly hard; the "m"s either float off the rule or squish together at the bottom like an indented trident, and the "s"s look like some kind of tiny, malformed "j" in which the top stroke disappears into the lowering curve. The "n"s are fat. The "a"s all look like stunted crabapples turned on their sides. And the "w"s ...

A drop of moisture falls onto the pad and Wilson blows out a soft breath in disgust. He's sweating, just from the effort of trying to write his own goddamn name. And this is just _printing_. He's light years away from actually using _cursive_. 

He looks back over his attempts. Every one is subtly different, the result of more pressure here, less there, a try for a stronger, more confident stroke. 

Every one looks like it came from a different hand. With an angry grunt, he rips the paper from the notepad and crumples it into a ball.

_Carpe fucking diem, House_ , he thinks bitterly. _Won't be a better time for forging my name. Get it while the getting's good._

Wilson throws the wadded piece of paper across the room. It bounces off the wall and joins the other crumpled-up victims of his frustration on the floor, a collection that resembles small, jagged golf balls.

His broken collarbone registers its dissatisfaction and Wilson rocks for a moment on the hospital bed, making low keening sounds. 

_Useless fucking shit. Can't do anything ... good for nothing._

He feels the hot prick of tears behind his eyelids; his breath hitches in his throat and for a long moment all he can feel is the impotent fury of helplessness.

"God damn it," he mutters. He knows that when House gets home he'll simply glance at the paper balls, mute testimony to Wilson's failure, and leave them there without a word. In the morning they'll be gone, both of them pretending they never existed in the first place. And maybe that's for the best.

Wilson sighs and picks up the pen. Slowly, laboriously, he begins to trace out the letters of his name again.

_J. a. m. e. s._


	43. Aftershocks 20.1: Consult

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Wilson takes a call. **  
****CHARACTERS:** Chase, Cameron, Foreman, Wilson, House. **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

****

  
****  
Consult** **

****  
_"I hate you all. Go away,"_ says House's voice on the answering machine. The office phone is on speaker setting, so they all hear it. Wilson isn't picking up, but then he rarely does. They have a different system now.

"Wilson. Wake up, get off your ass. Check your email," House commands, and then smacks the receiver back down in its cradle.

Chase is watching this with quiet interest, but Cameron's not. She's got her hands on her hips, and that pointy expression on her face. He wonders whether she knows how unflattering it is.

"You're really going to drag him into this case, insist that he has to _work_ for you?" She's insistently indignant, not her most endearing state by any means. "After everything he's been through, you think he doesn't deserve the time off to—"

"Chase! Instant survey!" House calls out. "Sick and injured, or totally useless? Which would you prefer to be?"

"Sick. Absolutely. Wait—am I going to regret having answered that?" It's hard to tell, with House. He snares people so very easily.

"No. You're useless _now_ , so it's not a choice you actually get to make. I'm just teaching Little Miss Compassionate why she's wrong."

"Good luck with that," Chase responds, and ignores Cameron's righteous glare as he goes back to studying the research paper he's just found. They know what their patient’s got, this time; the question is how to kill the infection without killing the guy in the process.

"Good luck with what?" asks Foreman, who's entering the room with great caution, as if it might be contaminated with some deadly pestilence.

"Convincing Cameron that there's no such thing as Santa," snipes House. "Your turn. Would you rather be physically sick, or useless and expendable at work?"

Foreman pauses, looking for the trap. "Why? Are you planning to experiment on me?"

"Why not? Worked great at Tuskeegee. Answer the question."

"Hypothetically," says Foreman, "I'd definitely rather be sick than useless. But I'm not volunteering for any of your weird science projects."

"Too late! You just helped me prove my hypothesis: Cameron's an idiot."

"For considering Wilson’s feelings? For thinking that you could have some sensitivity to—?"

"Should have that email," House interrupts, looking at his watch, "right...abouuut..."

He waits five more seconds and then smiles at the sound of his computer's _new mail_ alert. Chase, curious, approaches just as House turns back to Cameron. "You're hopeless," he says to her, as he opens the new message. "You will never understand men. Might as well go lesbian; spare us all. Better yet, sell video."

He turns the computer monitor so that she can see Wilson's reply, which is written in that now-familiar one-handed fashion:

_pythiosis?_

_at least it isn't cancer. ha._

_need info. send minion w/research, more chapstick._

"Now _there_ is a guy who's happy to have a job," House says, and Cameron looks at him as if he's out of his mind.

"He's obliging you," she insists, "because he's just that nice."

"He's not _that_ nice," Chase replies, "and he's thrilled. It's the first chance he's had in weeks to use his brain for something productive."

"Your nose is...getting awfully _tan_ ," House says, but Chase is used to that kind of minor abuse and shrugs it off. He's just about ready to walk away when the computer chimes again. "See?" says House, clicking to open the email, "He's on it like—"

_send chase, 4man. not cam. have mercy._

Cameron's mouth gapes open; she turns and walks away from the desk, bracing herself against the chuckles of the men. "Told you," says Chase, grinning as he packs his books and research papers and prepares to go see Wilson, "he's really not _that_ nice."  



	44. Aftershocks 20.2: Sensitivity

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** It's like kindergarten dodgeball around here. **  
****CHARACTERS:** Chase, Cameron, House. **  
**RATING: R for language and themes.  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Sensitivity**

 

Chase had still been smiling, practically whistling to himself while he walked down the hall like a little boy who was going on an unexpected field trip. She, meanwhile, was not allowed to go. She thinks she will never be allowed. Nobody will even talk to her about Wilson.

The Boys' Club has shut her out. _Go to work, little girl. Do your job, and don't mess with things you'll never understand._ It feels like the reverberation in the air after someone has slammed a door in her face. It's the end of the day and House—who can always find reasons to leave early—is putting off going home, toying around instead with porn or whatever it is he has on his computer. She wants to talk to him and find out what exactly is so wrong, but she has already tried and the response is always the same. House evades her, often by being such an ass that she has to walk away before she says what she's thinking and maybe gets fired.

Today she isn't even sure what she's thinking. The problem is more of a feeling—a sense of wrongness that she can't pin down because no one will tell her enough to let her diagnose it. 

While Wilson was in the hospital, House had spent hours hiding in Wilson's office, doing his research and spying and goofing off while sprawled in Wilson's posh leather chair. He had put up his feet on Wilson's heavy, elegant desk and—Cameron is certain of this—snooped shamelessly through every drawer and file. He had taken to eating his lunch (and often dinner) in there. She'd seen him napping on Wilson's sofa.

Now that Wilson is staying with him, House barely goes into that office at all. He looks at it every time he passes by, though. Yesterday evening, she had padded around the corner of the corridor (her feet were aching so terribly at the end of the day that she had taken off her high heels) and caught him. She was several yards behind him as he walked out of his office, wearing his iPod to shut out the world. He stopped there at Wilson's door. At first it appeared he would go in, but instead he ran his fingers over the silver letters of Wilson's name, like a blind man searching for a meaning he couldn't see.

That simple gesture had made her stop moving, even stop breathing. Cameron had thought of Ebenezer Scrooge on his knees in the snow, trying in vain to wipe his own name from the marble headstone. House had always seemed to consider guilt as a weakness to be exploited in others, while he himself was immune. Yet for just that moment, while he thought no one was watching, there it was. He can ridicule her all he likes, but there's something she knows about him now. 

He does care about his friend, and not just a little bit, either. She had thought it was some sort of weird power play, the way he'd taken Wilson home, but it wasn't. All she had wanted to do this morning was help, because House was so oblivious to the damage he could cause; she hadn't deserved his derision, or Wilson's for that matter. Had she?

_not cam. have mercy._

What the hell did Wilson think that she would do to him? 

 

* * *

"He thinks you'll kill him with kindness," says Chase, over the beer she has bought him. He's being honest, so she sips her own beer and waits for him to continue, knowing that this is not likely to be pleasant. Chase studies her; she can see him weighing his options, making decisions.

"Why do you think Wilson is friends with House?" he asks, and she discovers to her shock that she has never—not once in three years—even thought about that.

"He ... I ... I don't know. I guess ... I think he admires House."

"And that's all?"

"If you have something to tell me, just tell me. You all treat me like I'm an idiot, and I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that it's not because I'm a woman."

"Well, it sort of is," he says, and catches himself. She can almost see him trying to remove his shoe from his mouth. "It's just that you're _thinking_ like a woman. That doesn't make you an idiot."

"But it does get me treated like one?  That's ... enlightened."

"It means you're _not_ thinking like Wilson. He's really a lot like House, and that's what you're missing. You're concerned and sympathetic. It can feel like suffocation. If Wilson wanted sweetness and sympathy he'd find a different friend."

"I can't treat Wilson the way House does."

"I'd like to see you try," scoffs Chase. "Seriously, that's not what I'm suggesting." He pauses, his finger tracing lines in the condensation on his glass. "I think you'd do all right, if you just treated Wilson the way you'd treat House."

"But House is such a—"

"Bastard." 

"Have _mercy_ ," she sighs, and Chase nods at her. The smile on his face is large, genuine, and not the least bit condescending.

"I'll buy the next round, if you'd like."

"Only if there's food to go with it."  She leans with her elbows on the counter, just the way her mother taught her never to do. In this place, with the neon Corona signs reflecting off the worn varnished wood, it's only proper. She'll stay, and relax, and see if there's anything else she can learn from Chase.

 

* * *

House would want her to shut up and do something practical. "Make yourself useful" is practically a mantra with him. 

She thinks she has figured out how to do that, at least in a small way. _Thank you, Robert Chase_. Checking her kitchen cabinets, she finds precisely the item she needs. That's part one.

For part two she settles at her spare little desk and goes online.


	45. Aftershocks 21.1: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** When the bough breaks ...  
 **CHARACTERS:** Wilson  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**To Sleep, Perchance to Dream**

 

In the past two weeks, Wilson has slept more than he's ever slept in his life. He thinks he hasn't slept this much since he was a baby. It's the kind of sleep he yearned for when he was a student, an intern, a resident. The kind of sleep he would have killed for, if he could've figured out who to kill—sometimes it was a complete toss-up between his fellow students, the professors, the doctors who had driven him unmercifully to perform. He'd even wished he could've killed some of the more difficult patients sometimes. Instead all he'd been able to catch was fifteen minutes here, a half-hour there—never enough to feel completely rested and alert.

Now he sleeps a steady eight hours through the night, and often another six into the diurnal rhythm of the day. He hates to think what his circadian cycle will look like after this—he'll be like one of those blind cave crickets, living a static life in twenty-five-hour intervals.

You'd think he'd be _rested_ with all this sleep, but Wilson knows better. Almost every night he dreams, and sometimes now ( _finally_ ) they're good dreams, and sometimes ( _less often, thank God_ ) they're bad dreams, but he's _always dreaming_ , and he can't seem to stop.

It's probably one of the drugs he's on that's causing it, but he's always too tired to check and so he forgets until that night, and then he's dreaming again, and there's no relief in any of it.

He dreams of all kinds of shit now; it's like his mind is trying to disgorge everything he's ever done in a brain dump that takes place every night.

He dreams of being a kid and playing with his brothers, except they're always in California or on the moon, and he doesn't know which is weirder. He dreams of winning his first Little League trophy, only he's playing with a hockey stick instead of a bat and the trophy is a sand castle. He dreams of the first girl he ever kissed, and the only boy (almost as long ago), and then they merge into one and their mouths lengthen and transform, and he's kissing a wolf.

He dreams of being alone in House's apartment, and no one ever comes. He dreams of the long black limousine, and being pulled into it. They drive and drive and never stop.

Sometimes it's his brother being pulled into the car instead of him.

"Jamie," his brother says. "Help me."

But he never can.


	46. Aftershocks 21.2: Mug Shot

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** The female of the species is more deadly than the male. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** House, Chase, Cuddy, Cameron **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**  
Mug Shot**

 

There is an uninvited object sitting on House's desk.

He crab-walks over to it, glaring suspiciously at the foreign thing, which appears to be a large thermal coffee mug. It's one of the "travel" breed, tall and capacious and with a brushed steel exterior. Its lid is on the desk, leaning against the mug's side. A rolled sheaf of papers juts out from the cup's top.

This whole questionable setup would reek of James Wilson, if only James Wilson were _here_. Which he isn't, and won't be for a while, and many thanks to whatever idiot just chose to remind House of that.

House can hear the voice of his father telling him again that he's lucky. His friend is alive. Angry, bitter, one-handed and suffering, but alive and spending at least half the day asleep in that damn hospital bed.

Wilson ... if you stretched him out on an air mattress in the middle of a swimming pool, he'd probably point due north.

House snorts at that idea. It's funny to think of Wilson turning into a compass, because he kind of always was. He was the thing House always carried in a pocket, forgetting about it until he got a little lost. Wilson had always been a necessary instrument, even when he pointed the wrong way.

The not-left-by-Wilson coffee mug shows no evidence of being the result of terrorist activity. No need to call in the bomb squad or the guys in hazmat suits. Yet. House picks it up and shakes the rolled sheets of paper out onto his desk. They've been that way for a while, it seems, because they do not want to uncurl. He smooths them down with a huffing noise that no one is around to hear.

Every sheet of paper is a recipe for bisque soup. Seafood bisque; artichoke bisque; broccoli-and-cheese bisque; mushroom bisque; tomato bisque; chicken bisque; there are at least a dozen different formulas here and most—shockingly enough—appear to be edible.

Bisque soups and a big insulated mug. There's no name tag on the offering, but whatever elf left it here might as well have written "WILSON" on it in shiny gold letters.

Whoever did this either actually cares about Wilson, or knows that House cares about him and wants to earn brownie points with House. Those two criteria rule out all but two people, one of whom just happens to be shuffling through the door right now.

"Sure you went into the right field, Emeril?"

"What?"

"Or do you think you're Wolfgang Puck?"

Chase cocks his head, scowls and blinks at him. "What?"

"Never mind," says House, tossing his name badge at Chase's chest, where it bounces off and falls to the rug. "Go be _me_ instead. It's fun. You get to take a lot of drugs and hit people with a stick. Gotta get your own stick, though."

With a big, resigned sigh, Chase picks up House's name tag and clips it to his lab coat. He's well trained. He turns and heads for the clinic without another word. House smiles—not only because he's gotten out of clinic hours but because he now knows who the Soup Fairy is.

 

* * *

Cuddy hadn't understood a word that he said. Well, at least she hadn't admitted it. She had insisted that she'd had nothing to do with the Travel Mug of Mystery, and then she'd wanted to know why he wasn't in the clinic where he belonged.

Next time, House will remember that in the original stories, fairies weren't all gumdrops and cotton candy. They were powerful, capricious beings who would turn you into a hedgehog just for kicks.

Or they could send you down into Hades to get sneezed upon by a six-year-old whose sinuses were currently producing a sea of pea-green snot. Whatever House is getting paid, it's not enough to justify this kind of thing. What he really, really wants (other than freedom, his leg not to hurt, a few million tax-free dollars and lots of sex) is a very large mug of coffee.

The Evil Soup Fairy has sent Chase to the ER, and it's Foreman's day off. Fortunately for House, his remaining fellow is a perfectly capable fetcher of hot beverages.

As soon as the booger boy is gone, House uses some paper towels and alcohol to wipe the worst of the stuff off his clothes. Then he pages Cameron. She's going to hate him for this, which makes it even better: she's amusing when she's mad.

 

* * *

"In that nice shiny mug," he specifies. He's sitting on his rolling stool, using his cane to push himself a few inches to either side, back and forth. "The one that holds, like, a quart. Just what I need to survive the next two hours."

"You know that was for Wilson," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. _Well, well, well. So the fairy wasn't Cuddy after all_.

"Yep. And now I know where it came from," he retorts. "Surprisingly unsentimental. Was the gift shop out of teddy bears?"

"You should have waited to piss me off until _after_ I brought the coffee." Leaning back against the exam room counter, she waits for his response—any reason he can give her to put sugar and not salt (or something worse) in his drink.

"You've gotta admit that was a weird present. For one thing, you seem to think I can cook." He can, in fact, but she doesn't need to know that.

"I think you're resourceful enough to get whatever you want. But," she qualifies it, smirking at him, "not from me."

"I'll give it to him, okay? Cross my cold, dead heart. I'll even ... figure something out about the soups. A change of diet might make him less bitchy."

"Maybe you should try it too, then," she says, and saunters (when did Cameron learn to saunter?) out the door.

Cameron doesn't know it, but those recipes are already tucked neatly into the inside pocket of House's leather jacket. She's gotten it right this time. He wonders whether telling her so would increase the chances of her actually bringing him that coffee.  
   


  


	47. Aftershocks 21.3: Favors

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** House never was one to share. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Cuddy, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Favors**

 

Cuddy mentally smacks herself as soon as she hears the second ring over the phone line. Of _course_ Wilson isn't going to answer the phone; it's hard enough to talk to him face to face. The information she has for him isn't something to be left on an answering machine, either.

She doesn't have much time to think up something else to say, though, as House's outgoing message is short and less than sweet. So she falls back on the tried-and-true:

"House, on the off chance that you're _there_ instead of where you're _supposed_ to be, I'm warning you now: Answer your cell phone or so help me, I'm spamming the hospital with that picture. You know which one."

She smiles as she hangs up. She has, in fact, several pictures; she keeps a copy of her favorite in her desk drawer and peeks at it on days when House is particularly trying. It will drive House nuts not to know what she's talking about, not to mention it will give Wilson a puzzle to solve.

 

* * *

"House!"

She can tell he's rolling his eyes, even though his back is to her. House can roll his eyes with his whole body. As Cuddy gets closer, he turns and growls, "My patient is cured, I did my shift in Biohazard Bay, and Wilson is lonely. You can't make me stay here."

Cuddy smiles gently as she steps in close to him. "I'm not making you _do_ anything. But I do want to talk to you, and you don't seem to respond to anything else."

"Because this way, I can look down your shirt," House leers as he leans a little and pointedly looks down at her collarbones. She shoves a small white card under his nose, blocking his view.

"I called in some favors," she says softly. "For Wilson. Dr. Simonds specializes in trauma cases."

House grabs the card and scans it quickly. "Wilson doesn't need a shrink."

Cuddy grabs his wrist. "Yes, he does. He was beaten within an inch of his life for _no reason_." She's close enough to catch his wince, but she ignores it; House feeling guilty over a random event makes him more human, somehow. "His physical recovery is going to take months. He needs to talk to someone about this."

"He's got me," he replies and tugs on his wrist. Of _course_ , House never was one to share.

She doesn't let go. "Right. You're excellent with the emotional processing. You need therapy, yourself."

"He's _convalescing_. It's bad enough I've got to drag him to OT twice a week, I'm not dragging him across town to mumble for an hour." House tries again to pull his hand away, but Cuddy shifts her stance and grabs his other wrist, too, resting her hand over his on his cane. She so rarely has House cornered; part of her relishes the small victory.

"That's part of the favor. I talked to her, she knows the basic facts of Wilson's injuries. She's agreed to come to the apartment until Wilson's ready to go to her office. All you need to do is tell Wilson about it."

House glares at her.

"It's his call, House," she says, releasing his wrists and stepping back. "Not yours. Tell him, let him make the decision."

He stuffs the card in his pocket and heads for the doors.

"I'm coming over next week, House," Cuddy calls after him. "If you don't tell him, I will."  



	48. Aftershocks 22.1: Pathetic

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** The pattern of Wilson's days is drastically different. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
   


  
**Pathetic**

 

The pattern of Wilson's days is drastically different. He used to get up, shower, be pressed and dressed and on his way to work with a coffee and a bagel less than an hour after he awoke. He used to be busy; grand rounds at 9:00, patients in the morning, hospital meetings in the afternoon, departmental business sandwiched in-between, smoothing over House's madness sprinkled throughout the day. As crappy as it was to awaken to that drab green hotel room, the first thought of the day a reminder that he was a bachelor, again, it was a hell of a lot better than waking up to House's living room and a chorus of pain.

His new routine is simpler, his day clocked according to his meals and meds. And he's finally, finally starting to be awake more hours than he sleeps. Which is a mixed blessing, given that being awake also means thinking.  
  
Wilson tears his eyes away from the mute CNN scroller and stares up at the ceiling, letting the music from the stereo wash over him. He's got plenty of time for thinking, now. The distractions House has sprinkled throughout the apartment only serve as a reminder of how long he's going to be here, how far from normal he really is.

Last week, all he could really think about was Point A ( _OK, I'm in the hospital_ ) and Point B ( _I'm all better_ ). This week, today, as he contemplates the hieroglyphics from today's round of right-handed writing practice, he can finally see the distance between Points A and B and it's not a straight line; hell, it's not even _short_.

Thank God House had to go to work today. Wilson doesn't think he can take much more of it. The touching. The watching when he thinks Wilson's not looking. The eating solid foods. When _House_ is more able-bodied than you are, you're in deep shit, buddy.

The guilt.

House doesn't realize it, but he wears his guilt like bad cologne. It radiates off him in waves the minute he enters the apartment and lingers long after he's slammed the door behind him.

The man paid a near-stranger an exorbitant sum for _two hours_ because he can't stand watching Wilson shuffle around like an old man. He sent one of his fellows because he was tired of making smoothies, but he isn't the one drinking the fucking things.

Wilson shoves the tray table away and laboriously pushes himself out of bed. He'll have a goddamned smoothie, and if he doesn't feel like going all the way down the hall to the bathroom, he'll have an empty cup nearby. Let House clean it up.

It takes Wilson almost fifteen minutes to blend up his meal, even though everything is right there. He forgoes the strawberries because they're on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

A blue patient folder lies open on the coffee table. Wilson glances at it as he passes on his way back to bed, but he doesn't bother flipping it shut. House called him on a pity consult, trying to make him feel useful. It was the highlight of his week.

How fucking pathetic is that?

 

* * *

House arrives home with a clatter and a shout. He's in high spirits; apparently he won a round with Cuddy and snuck out of the hospital because he's home two hours early. Wilson leans against the bathroom wall and takes a deep breath, trying to muster patience from a well long dry. He opens the door and starts his long shuffle down the hall.

House is leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen when he gets to the living room. As Wilson starts settling himself back into bed, House asks, "So, _Jimmy_ , you do your PT today?"

Wilson pauses, leaning hard on his arm, and wishes he could open his mouth enough to scream. House sounds... Christ, he sounds _smug_. Like this is some kind of sick payback for all the times Wilson (sometimes literally) dragged his sorry ass out of bed. Like he's happy to see Wilson in worse shape than he is. Like he's forgotten that all this is his fault.

"Wha'd you used to say? Oh yeah, _fuck off_." He can't help the bitter words that slip free, but they feel so good to finally say that he doesn't try to stop the rest. He glares at House, every uncomfortable shift of House's frame serving only to fuel his anger, to give him a target. "You like this, your payback? Revenge for all those times I helped you? You wandid me to feel your pain? You got your wish, House."

He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to slow down, to enunciate every word, because House _deserves_ to hear it all. Wilson stands up; he barely feels the protest of his creaking bones.

He says precisely what he thinks and it feels so damn good that he doesn't care about that look in House's eyes. It feels so damn good that he's glad when House snaps up his helmet and his jacket and slams the door behind him as he leaves.

He may as well. It's obvious House doesn't want to be here anyway.  



	49. Aftershocks 22.2: Sacrifices

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** No direction home. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson, OFC **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.  
   


  
**Sacrifices**

 

It wasn't that he was trying to be mean. All he'd done was ask (all right, maybe in a tone he shouldn't have used, but there's such a delicious sense of turnabout in all of this) whether _Jimmy_ had done his PT today.

_Lemme alone, House. You've had enough practice at that._  
  
He should turn to the right, toward the track, just like Wilson said.

_Go play with your new friends. 'M sure they miss you._

Of course they don't, and he damn sure doesn't miss _them_ , but he should go anyway just because Wilson said so. That'd teach him, wouldn't it? _Yeah. Because that lesson went so well the first time, right?_

He turns left instead, westward, out of town. The sun is down behind the trees, its glare giving way to a velvety light that shades the grass and sky with a soft, hazy gold. It should be beautiful; it is beautiful in fact. House glances downward and notes that the orange sides of his bike seem to glow from within. 

The Honda whines like an enormous, angry, fiery wasp as he opens up the throttle. 

It's not enough. The powerful engine, the hollow rush of air over his helmet, the constantly shifting feel of the asphalt beneath the tires—not enough this time.  He doesn't even know where the hell he's going. Certainly not to the hospital (that, too, would've been the right turn he'd chosen not to take). There's no point going to a bar. Even if he wanted to drink—and he doesn't, right now—he'd then be unable to get himself home. He'd have to call a cab, and that would mean Wilson would know what he'd done, and—no. It's not that it matters if Wilson knows that he gets drunk now and then. It's just that if Wilson picks at him tonight, and House is drunk, there's no telling what House will say to him.

It might sound something like _fuck you_. And that was exactly why House left the scene, left Wilson there to stew through the evening on his own. 

There are green hills all around House now, hills dotted with big round bales of hay. He can smell mown grass and the occasional, somewhat less pleasant scent of livestock. He rounds a curve, leaning into the force of the turn, and sees an old red barn set back from the road. 

Fighting a wave of dizziness, he twists the throttle back, slows to a crawl and pulls into the nearest disused driveway. The gravel's packed tight with clay and weeds; it holds the bike easily, provides a good surface for the kickstand. It's an entry to a pasture, that's all. House pulls off his helmet and stumps over to the fence, still feeling as if the ground isn't quite as solid as he'd like. He leans on the old gate, listening to the rusted hinges creak. A dark horse is watching him from halfway across the field, its head held high, ears pricked. 

House doesn't see any cows. 

There's a mourning dove calling from the power lines across the road. Somewhere else, not as close, an owl _hoos_ softly in response. 

_This what you wanted? 'M just like you now._ Wilson's words sink ever more deeply into House's mind, down his throat, into his stomach. 

No, it wasn't what he wanted. And if he's very, very lucky, Wilson was lying and he'll never be like House. It's too hard a thing even to think of, Wilson all shot through with House's anger, his bitterness. What House wanted—and this is pretty damn sad—was his friend. Not a warden, or a hopeless lying martyr. Most certainly House hadn't wanted a therapist or a parent or any of the other crappy things Wilson had tried to be, screwing up House's whole life in the process. What House had wanted was for Wilson to stop all that and just— _stop_ it.  

A gentle sound makes House look up. He hadn't noticed the approaching horse, which is now just a yard away and stretching out its nose, cautiously puffing and sniffing the air around him. It has a long forelock, and deep brown eyes that look black in the gathering dusk. It's tall and sleek, a Thoroughbred perhaps. House thinks of chasing it off, but he's curious now. The horse, a dark bay gelding, lazily shakes its head as it steps forward.

It delivers a swift, hard bite to House's forearm and then wheels merrily, squeals and runs. 

"SHIT!"

He's startled and his arm hurts like hell, but House understands. The damn horse wants to _play_ with him. _Tag, you're It._  

"Sorry, Wildfire. Can't keep up. You'll have to pick a non-cripple next time." So much for the peaceful countryside.

 

* * *

He can't even remember how he got so far out of civilization, but getting back is easy enough: point the bike eastward and go. Sooner or later he'll find one of the familiar north/south roads that'll take him home.

That thought isn't as pleasant as it once was.

Home means the sound of that blender, the endless yakking of the television, and Wilson's hollow silence underneath the noise. Home used to be his refuge, and now it's like being stretched out on an altar, waiting for his best friend to go all ancient-Aztec and cut out his heart.

Five minutes away, he spots Mama Leoni's and realizes that he's hungry. He's _hungry_ , dammit, and Wilson will just have to deal with his limitations. If House can't get anything else that he wants, he can get this.

 

* * *

" _Give_ me that," she snaps at him, her clean, blunt-nailed fingers snatching the folded paper out of his hand. She flips it open and squints down at the recipe and then up again at him, like she's comparing his face to a photo on a wanted poster. _"No,"_ she says. "No, I can't make this for you, Biker Boy. I don't cook swill." She scowls and wrinkles her nose, wads up the paper and tosses it into the nearest trash bin _._ "You even read it? That idiot said to use _Campbell's tomato soup._ And paprika, for God's sake. What's _wrong_ with people? Hm?"

"Don't ask _me,_ " House retorts, "unless you have all night." 

"So, what? A Biker Boy Special and ... how much soup?  A quart?"

"Yeah. That'd work."

"Good, then. I'll send Toby over in an hour." She starts on a beeline for the kitchen, but he calls out to stop her.

"How much?"

"Fifteen for the pie. You stiff Toby his tip again, I swear I'm putting anchovies on your next one." She'll do it, too. Toby's a twerp, but you don't mess with Mama Leoni, and he's probably her nephew or something.

"And the soup?"

"Is a mystery," she says, "'cause _you_ don't eat soup. Who's it for? Somebody get sick?"

"Guy with wires in his jaw. My friend." Short brunettes, House thinks, are entirely too perceptive. Especially if they're Sicilian. 

"That soup'll be too thick for him. Unless he's lost a tooth or two?"

House winces and nods. How is she so familiar with the problems of broken jaws? He decides he doesn't want that information. He'd rather continue to know her as Pizza Lady, and let her call him Biker Boy, and leave it at that. When he looks again she's standing with her hands on her hips, dark brown eyes assessing him from head to toe.

"Get out of here," she commands, "and you let _me_ worry about the soup." 

 

* * *

Wilson has hardly said a word since House got back. That isn't very surprising, considering that for all Wilson knows, House did go to the track. Spite is an ugly thing, and they both know House isn't above it. 

He may not have gone to the track, but he doesn't have to tell Wilson that. If Wilson thinks House is that stupid, that unable to learn, it's his own damn fault. 

Toby shows up with the pizza and the soup, and Wilson doesn't even turn around to see what's happening. He's either sulking or he's half asleep. Too bad, because the delivery kid is always amusing. He wears a dress shirt and tie on his pizza rounds, and manages to get tomato sauce on himself every time. Moron.

"Put that in the kitchen," House tells him, and Toby eagerly does. You'd never know he'd been stiffed last time. That kind of cheerfulness is not rational; it has to be a sign of mental deficiency. When he returns, House shoves a ten dollar bill at him. "Tell the Pizza Lady to call off the hounds," he says.

"Sure thing!" chimes Toby, as House practically shoves him out the door.

When House looks back into the living room, he sees Wilson glaring at him, clearly pissed off at the unfairness of life. There's Leoni's pizza on hand and all poor Jimmy has had is yet another nutritious smoothie. The hell with him. He can bitch about unfairness on the day he wakes up and realizes that he'll always, forever, as long as he lives, be in pain.

House has an offering that will probably please him, but the God of the Guilty Conscience can just damn well _wait_.  



	50. Aftershocks 22.3: Cruelty

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Right back where they started -- or maybe not. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**  
Cruelty**

 

Wilson shifts uncomfortably in his recliner-bed. The wrinkled sheets have pressed creases into the backs of his thighs, causing the skin to itch when he moves. When he tries to reach the area to scratch it, his spine and back muscles give him hell. Just another rotten night in his new home. And House, for all his previous efforts, is back to being a complete prick. 

This had to happen. Wilson really should have known.

House has ordered pizza from Mama Leoni's, where they make the best crust in the known universe. Wilson does his best to ignore the scent of Italian sausage and melted mozzarella. He swallows, trying not to actually drool. Hunger is his constant affliction, because a liquid diet is never enough to take away the pangs. House is doing this on purpose, torturing him. Taking his revenge for the attack Wilson mounted a few hours ago.

To add insult to injury, House is also drinking beer. Wilson can almost taste it, cold and clean, faintly bitter, so much more refreshing than ginger ale or juice. Not to mention the soothing effect of the alcohol. Too bad the thugs beat him so badly that they lacerated his liver. The surgical repairs haven't fully healed yet, so he's stuck, unable to eat, or drink, or scream the way he sometimes wishes he could.

Even if he had anywhere else to go, he couldn't get in his car and drive away. He's tried to mimic the necessary motions, sitting up straight (painful), operating his turn signals (clumsy), steering with one hand (Okay until he feigned a sharp turn, which made his shoulder and back hurt.  A lot.) One wrong move and the chipped vertebrae remind him of why he's still on oxycodone. Every way his mind turns it finds another wall, and no way out.

But there is that scrip, isn't there? And he's sore, always sore. Tonight it's worse than it's been in a few days, and if that has anything to do with his fight with House, he'd rather not think about it. There's no reason not to kill the pain and go to sleep and just forget for a while.

Wilson shifts carefully and slides off the bed. He doesn't want the assistance that House doesn't offer. With the liquid oxy in hand, he shuffles slowly into the kitchen and pours a little juice. The dosage is five milligrams, but he measures out seven and then startles painfully at the drawling voice behind him.

" _Overmedicating_ , are we?"

It's uncanny how silently House can move, when he tries. Glaring at him, Wilson defiantly raises the small glass to his lips and sucks down the juice as fast as he can. "Gotta get away f'm you somehow," he says.

"How the mighty have fallen," growls House. "Get out of my way. I want another beer." He gets a bottle from the fridge and rounds on Wilson again. "Oh, stop looking at me like that. What're you gonna do, hit me? _Move out?_ "

Wilson throws the empty glass like a hand grenade. It hits the wall, exploding into a cloud of fragments. The swift movement causes so much pain to Wilson's back that his knees buckle; he sinks to the floor, gasping, his right hand clawing at the cabinets for support. House gives him an inscrutable look—of satisfaction, perhaps—and limps away, sipping his beer. Maybe he doesn't think Wilson belongs on his knees, but this time House is content to leave him there.

The microwave clock shows the agonizing passage of minutes. Ten of them go by before Wilson can muster enough courage to pull himself upright. When he finally does get back into the living room, he's hurting so bad that the extra medication isn't helping much. He hopes it's just a briefly delayed reaction. Right now, he'd almost rather be hit over the head and knocked out cold than wait for the oxy to work.

House seems to watch his every step, clinically cataloging the symptoms. Wilson's taking shallow breaths, trying not to disturb any muscle or bone unless he absolutely must. Almost there, almost to the bed. House approaches him just as he's starting to sit down.

"Go to hell," Wilson wheezes, settling ever so softly on the mattress, hoping not to cause himself any more pain.

"Do you _get_ it now, Wilson? Or do I need to _explain_ that you're miserable, depressed, and taking too many drugs?"

Wilson shuts his eyes, leans haltingly back against the elevated head of the bed, and wills his body to stop hurting. It works, a little. When he looks again House is gone, and then there's the sound of the kitchen microwave. A divine new scent drifts outward and wafts seductively around Wilson's body. That decides it. As soon as he's well enough, Wilson's going to ... beat House to death with his own cane. Yeah. That would be fitting.

Except that House returns, not with a plate of food but with a large, unfamiliar insulated coffee mug. He sets it down on the hinged tray table that's attached to the bed. That extraordinary fragrance is rising from it in steamy curls, compelling Wilson to have a look inside. 

It's tomato soup, but not the usual kind. This is a smooth bisque that's redolent of fresh basil and some kind of cheese. Without a word, House slowly raises the head of the bed a little more, sitting him upright enough to eat, and throws one of Wilson's ubiquitous bendy straws into the cup. Immediately House lurches back to the sofa and turns up the volume on the television, signaling that he has no desire to hear anything Wilson might have to say.

He'd love to refuse this gift, love to knock it off the table instead of eating it. But it smells marvelous, and he's so tired of strawberries and bananas, peanut butter and yogurt. He slips the straw through that gap in his teeth and takes a taste.

The soup is heaven. It's tangy, creamy, salty and rich, the best thing Wilson's had since that horrible day. It's better even than the fried-chicken smoothie Wilson himself had invented. It's so good that he could almost weep.

"I'll tell Mama Leoni you said thanks," mumbles House, and isn't that always the way. Just when Wilson's ready to send him to an early grave, House does some strange and irresistible thing, knocking Wilson's rage away as easily as he might flick a bug off his sleeve.

He waits until Wilson has finished, and then gets up again. Swinging the tray table aside, he takes hold of Wilson's shirt. "That was a really dumb thing you did," he says, as he peels the fabric upward to examine the body beneath. Wilson allows this because he's too tired and sore to fight, and it's been a few days since House last checked him. He knows that if anything even begins to go wrong, chances are that House will spot it first. So he sits still and holds his breath, because while House hasn't hurt him any of the other times they've done this, it's always possible. It would be so like him to poke too hard at a spot he knows is especially tender.

That doesn't happen, though. House is efficient, thorough, and prods only as much as he must. It's as if there's nothing the matter. "Sure you're all right?" he asks, when he fails to find anything to be alarmed about. "Because I paid good money for that soup, and I'm gonna be pissed if you puke it all up."

"Do I look all right? And'm not gonna puke."

"You never answered my question," House says, looking down at him with—what? Anger? Hope? Contrition? This being House, maybe it's all three. Wilson can't even remember what the question was. House's expression changes, this time to something recognizable: annoyance. "Do you _get it?_ " he repeats, and under the exasperation Wilson can hear a dozen layers of hurt.

"Yeah," he replies at last. "I think I do."

He thinks he does get it; he's learned what it is to take a chemical escape route when all others are blocked. He has learned how it feels to be so proud that he'd stay on the floor, in agony, neither asking for nor expecting any help.

He slides cautiously out of bed to go brush his teeth as well as he can, a routine that involves a water pik and a lot of mouthwash. It takes so much longer than it used to, and not only because he's got to use the wrong hand. Every movement of his arm causes stabbing aches in his ribs and back. By the time he's done, the living room is dark except for the dim yellow glow of the range light, coming from the kitchen. They leave that on as insurance that he won't hurt himself if he has to get up in the night. The television's off. House has gone to bed and taken all his contradictions with him.

Well—almost all of them. There's a small cup of juice on Wilson's tray table and a large scrawly note which reads, _3 mg. You need it. Drink._ He sighs and waits for the room to stop spinning. The dizziness is a side effect of either the pain, or the oxy, or House, who really ought to come with a warning label. House, who accused him and brought him soup and left him in misery on the floor—it's too much to try and make sense of right now. Probably this gift means _I'm sorry_ , but he'll think about that tomorrow.

This much is certain: if House says _you need this_ , then you do. If there's one thing House knows about, it's pain. The cranberry cocktail tastes bitter and metallic after all that toothpaste and mouthwash, so Wilson gets it down quickly.

A few minutes later, he eases into the first deep, comfortable sleep he's had in two days.  



	51. Aftershocks 22.4: A White Lie

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Ignorance is bliss, about 50% of the time. **  
****CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House. **  
**RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**  
A White Lie**

 

It's the first actual _lie_ he's told Wilson since all this started: he pours the juice, adds five milligrams of morphine, and writes a note that claims it's only three. He doesn't specify three mil of _what_ ; Wilson will likely think it's oxycodone. If he knows what it is he'll huff and fret and probably only drink half of it. 

So House simply writes, "You need it," which is the absolute truth, and limps off to bed before Wilson can finish his sorry attempt at brushing his teeth. 

House's bed is about as comfy as a pile of rocks. His leg is cursing him as usual, and tonight his right arm and shoulder have joined in. When he does drift off, he drifts into places he'd rather not go. The floor of the apartment is rotting right through, and big dark centipedes are climbing upward through the holes, up the walls, into the light fixtures. The lights are going dim. Electrical sparks are flying.

He wakes, rubs his face, and grabs for the pill bottle.

It feels like an hour that he lies there waiting for the next wave of sleep to wash over him. It doesn't come. He thinks of a shoreline before a tsunami, with all the water pulled away. Maybe he can't sleep because something bad is about to happen. No, that's stupid. If that kind of intuition existed, he'd never have wound up crippled. 

_And you'd have paid the mobsters before they killed Wilson._  
  
"They didn't kill him."

_Technically, no. They just killed your friend._

House starts to retort that Wilson will get over it, but he's never been all that great at lying to himself.

That wicked little alter ego scoffs at him, replaying the film of Wilson on his knees in the kitchen, gasping in pain.

" _Fine._ I'm an ass. Can I get some sleep now?"

_He didn't deserve that. He never deserved any of the lousy things you did to him._

If this keeps up, House thinks he'll do one more lousy thing: he'll steal some of Wilson's morphine and knock himself out. He shifts his weight a little more to the left, tucks his left ankle below his right knee and sighs at the unexpected rush of relief. Vicodin, blessed Vicodin, kicking in at last.

 

* * *

Fucking useless Vicodin.

It's seventeen minutes after two. The numbers on the digital clock are glowing an evil red. 

That's the _second_ stupid thought he's had tonight. He hasn't even been having nightmares, just one bizarre dream after another. Wilson alive and well but planted vertically in the ground, up to his ribs in a bed of white flowers. Himself riding his motorcycle and the motorcycle shrinking and shrinking until he was balancing atop a tiny, ridiculous toy. Tornadoes dancing through the city, reeling toward the apartment—okay, maybe that was a nightmare, but he had awoken before they ever hit.

Now he's shivering and his heart is pumping so hard that he can't lie on his side anymore. The pulse in his ear echoes against the pillow, making him turn onto his back. What the hell is wrong with him?

_How much longer will you have a best friend?_ asks that vicious little voice in his head. People think that House is only mean to everyone else. They have no idea.

"He won't leave me," House insists, but that's another lie. Time's running out; the tornadoes are gathering. Wilson was all he had left, other than his job and his attractive, unreachable boss. So of course House screwed that up, left that one friend out in the storms.  
  
_You could at least go and make sure he's all right._

 

* * *

Wilson's out cold. House stands in the darkness where the hallway meets the living room, staring at the bed and at the empty cup on the bedside table. He's responsible for that -- for Wilson's abrupt introduction to the wonderful world of opiates. For his introduction to Martin. And Wilson, knowing that, has still drained the cup that House offered.

The table's a mess of Chapstick tubes, papers, a pen, the empty tomato-soup mug, juice cup, bottles of liquid meds. Wilson even wound up in possession of the remote control.

House doesn't know what else he could give. The efforts he has made are huge, for him, but he's not stupid. Once Wilson has physically mended, once he no longer needs assistance, he'll be gone. House has been sealing his own fate, keeping Wilson here like this, keeping him close. It's like standing on the tracks in front of a freight train. If he were sane he would move. He'd get Wilson out of here, send him to his family or something, let them—

The thought is so repulsive—Wilson's idiot relations with their hands all over him, not knowing what that means for him now—that he can't even consider it. 

House limps quietly toward the bed. Wilson's lying so _still._ Very, very lightly, House rests his fingertips along Wilson's throat, at the path of the carotid artery. There's a slow, strong pulse. He'd known there would be, but he'd needed to _feel_ it and now he does not want to go. He's going to turn around, go back to his room, and try again to get some sleep. In a minute, as soon as this new surge of pain subsides a little.

There's space on Wilson's bed, which is easier to get on and off of than the sofa. He'll sit down there, wait out the worst of it, and Wilson will never know.

_Just like he doesn't know that you didn't go to the track tonight. You really think it was a good idea not to tell him?_

House would tell his damn brain, out loud, to shut up—but he doesn't, because he doesn't want Wilson to wake up.

_You didn't tell him what Martin did to you, either._

Yeah, well, he'll ... get around to that eventually. He doesn't want to, but he will.

_You also didn't tell him that nobody ever warned you. Did you?_  
  
No. Oh God, he didn't, did he? In his own mind it was so obvious that he'd never have thrown Wilson to those wolves. It had been obvious, so he'd never actually _told_ Wilson how it happened and—shit. No wonder Wilson's starting to break things.

_He thinks you're such a reckless, heedless asshole that you gambled with his life. And lost. You idiot. Now you want him to forgive you?_

__He's sitting there staring at Wilson's messy hair and broken nose. He's so cold he feels like he's just fallen through the ice on a frozen lake. This thing had never, not _once_ occurred to him before now. Wilson probably thinks it happened like it does in the movies. The bad guys threaten, the good guy calls their bluff, and _then_ someone gets hurt. House himself had thought it worked that way, so why did he stupidly assume Wilson knew?

And Wilson _has_ to know. House is a jerk, yes, but he'd _never_ have knowingly let this happen. The moment Wilson wakes up, House will tell him. It might help. It might be the only thing that can.

What's really unbelievable is that Wilson's still here at all.

The room is spinning lazily, the bed rocking sideways like a boat. House has to lie down. He can't think anymore, so he'll just stay here with Wilson. Just for a while.  



	52. Aftershocks 22.5: Nocturne

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Of all the unexpected things ... **  
****CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House. **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**  
Nocturne**

 

Wilson floats slowly into consciousness, not because he's hurting (he's not, and it's so nice) but because something has changed. His entire right side, the one with the good hand and no broken clavicle, feels strangely warm. Also, something is resting lightly over the crown of his head. It doesn't feel threatening, but it's pulling him quietly out of sleep, as his brain tries to connect these new sensations and attach some kind of meaning to them.

It resolves itself when he realizes that there is a hand laid softly on his shoulder. The warmth is that of a long, solid human body that has formed an arc against Wilson's side. The pressure on Wilson's crown is a chin resting there. It's definitely House; who else would it be? But it is strange in the extreme. House has certainly never done anything like this before. __

__"House?"

House says nothing, but digs his fingers firmly into Wilson's shoulder and draws an unsteady breath. He's waiting for a reaction, it seems; waiting to see whether he will be allowed to stay and to ... do whatever it is he's doing. Wilson lies still, bewildered. His arm's wedged between House's body and his own, and what with that and his injuries he can't move much, but oddly—despite his recently acquired claustrophobia—he doesn't feel trapped. At this hour, the dark room seems secure and forgiving, ready to keep whatever confidences it's offered. Wilson decides that whatever this is, it'll be okay. He mumbles the only thing he can think of.

"Talk t'me."

At first it seems that House won't. For about a minute neither man moves or speaks. 

"They didn't _tell_ me," House says, finally, and he sounds like he's dying of thirst. "You know that, don't you? No warnings. I didn't _know_." His chin is still hooked over Wilson's head and so it's easy to hear the strain, the tightness in his throat. In truth, Wilson _didn't_ know there'd been no notice given before the violence began. He had desperately hoped that it was so, but he couldn't make himself ask. If the answer had been that threats had been made and House had ignored them ...

"Every day," House continues, "someone wants to know how you're doing. Someone; my team, Cuddy. They think I'm being _nice_. House gives a damn, let's have a parade." There's a pause, harsh breaths, and then a low rasp of grief: "They don't know _it's my fault_. Oh God. Wilson—"

And then House is trying to shield him, as if the roof were caving in. House's damaged right leg stretches over Wilson's knees; an arm reaches across his chest, hopelessly seeking to shelter him from the bomb that has already dropped. That heavy head is pressing into Wilson's neck, into his cheek, and he doesn't need to see the sorrow on House's face. He can feel it. Some part of Wilson's mind numbly tries to understand what's happening. Is he dreaming? No. Is there a logical reason why House would—no. _Yes_ , actually, he corrects himself. There's a very good reason.  
   
He turns his face slightly toward House, taking what's being given. House is brokenly choking out phrases, _thought they'd kill you, no warning, I didn't know, I'd have **paid**. I'd have paid. Wilson_.

It's blinding, this sudden rift that has opened up in House's iron curtain. The shock and numbness burn away like cobwebs in the fire. He wriggles his elbow until House notices and moves just a little. Just enough to allow Wilson to work his right arm beneath House's side and wrap it around his back. House has fallen silent again, but Wilson has already learned the things he really wanted to know.

It _is_ House's fault that he's in this sorry state, and then again it isn't, and sometimes it matters who's to blame. Sometimes it doesn't.  



	53. Aftershocks 23.1: Surprises

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** "I hope I see him the next time I have to come to the clinic." **  
****CHARACTERS:** House, other canon characters **  
**RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Surprises**

 

"What the--" Foreman asks just before a pink rubber ball bounces off his shining dome.

Chase doesn't say anything when an oversized tennis ball scatters the papers and pens in front of him.

"OW!" Cameron yells when an undersized kickball hits her upside the head, digging her glasses into the side of her nose.

"Ooops," House says and retreats into his office. Balls of various sizes and shapes continue bouncing and rolling around the conference room, silent reminders of House's oddly ... bubbly mood during the morning differential.

The fellows look at each other, then at the superball still bouncing on the table.

"I take it Wilson's feeling better," Chase mutters as he rearranges the forms in the patient's file.

 

* * *

Cuddy always stops at the clinic desk when on her way to and from her office; today is no exception. The exception appears to be that House signed in to the clinic roster _on time_. Cuddy can't hide the astonished expression on her face when she realizes that House appears to be covering Wilson's hours.

Amazing. The man won't do his own hours, but he'll steal someone else's.

The patient leaving Exam Two looks...not angry. Cuddy steps over to her as she signs some paperwork.

"Excuse me," she says and the woman turns quickly. "Hi. I'm Dr. Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine here. Which doctor did you see today?"

"I'm not sure of his name," the woman replies quietly. "But he had a cane? I liked him."

Cuddy shakes her head once, trying to recalibrate her ears. "You ... what?"

"He was nice. He was so gentle when he stitched up my hand." She waves her bandaged hand at Cuddy and smiles. "I hope I see him the next time I have to come to the clinic."

Cuddy turns to Brenda, who is looking back at her with the same expression of incredulity, and says, "Write that down somewhere."

 

* * *

Cameron stands at the coffee machine, watching the liquid drip into the pot. The side of her nose still throbs gently under her glasses. When it finishes (finally), she retrieves a clean mug and pours it full of caffeinated goodness. She takes a deep breath before pushing the door of House's office open.

House is sitting in his desk chair, carefully arranging CD cases like dominoes and humming to himself. Cameron has to stop and blink; she hasn't seen him _playing_ like this in his office in over a year.

"Are you on _drugs_?" The words are out before she can think about them.

House doesn't look up. "Always."

Cameron walks over to the desk and carefully sets the mug down in the only empty space. "No," she says, "are you on some new and/or illegal drugs? Because you're ..."

House looks up this time, raising his eyebrows and tilting his chin, encouraging her to continue. "I'm?"

"You're in a good mood!" Cameron half-shouts. She puts her hands on her hips to keep from flailing; she can see his expression turn calculating as he figures out just how much his unusual behavior is bothering everyone around him. She knows she's giving him ammunition, but she can't help it. "What the hell, House? It's got to be drugs."

He starts to smile, that evil little lopsided curly smile that shows off that damn dimple and can only mean trouble. "Nope," he replies. "I drugged _Wilson_. And then I slept with him."  



	54. Aftershocks 23.2: Hallmark

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Sometimes a lesson is learned. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Cameron, Foreman, Chase **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

  
**Hallmark**

 

When Cameron buys a _Thinking of You_ card for Wilson, Chase rolls his eyes but signs it. Foreman hands it back, shaking his head. “It’s not true,” he says. “I’m thinking of doing my job. Wilson’s House’s friend, not mine. The only reason I hope he comes back soon is so that House will go back to his old level of insanity.”

“Dr. Wilson’s a colleague,” Cameron retorts, shoving the pen and card toward Foreman again. “A colleague who, as you just pointed out, helps keep our boss from driving us completely insane. Sign the damn card and give me a twenty for your share of the present.”

Foreman’s right hand, which had been moving slowly in Cameron’s direction, jerks back. “Present? You expect me to shell out money for the man, too?”

Chase holds in a sigh. He can only imagine what Cameron typically gives to convalescing friends: flowers, balloons, cute knick-knacks, teddy bears. Little things of the kind Wilson has scattered across his office. Things, Chase speculates, Wilson has no interest in himself, but accepts to bring satisfaction to the giver.

“We’re giving him a gift certificate for downloadable audio books,” Cameron says, as if she’s followed Chase’s train of thoughts. “It’s boring to be stuck inside so long, when you’re tired and can’t do everything you used to. There’s only so much TV a person can watch.”

She looks down to the table, swallowing gently, and Chase suddenly remembers about her husband’s cancer. Foreman looks like he might have remembered too, as he takes the card from her hand and writes a few words in it.

Chase pulls his wallet from his pocket and stares Foreman down until he does the same.

“Thanks,” Cameron says, accepting the cash. “And with a gift certificate, Wilson can choose what he likes best. As you men have ever so politely and gently pointed out to me, his tastes and mine are not always the same.”

Foreman gets a wry look in his eye, and Chase can’t entirely hold back a grin. Sometimes Cameron takes things too much to heart… and sometimes she takes them exactly the right amount to heart.

“So,” Chase asks, “does this mean we can trade in this flowery card for something more masculine?”

“Absolutely not.” Cameron grabs the card from the table and tucks it inside a pale yellow envelope. “You’ve seen House’s apartment -- it's like a cave in there. They need some small bit of pleasant flowery cheer to lighten the place up, whether they realize it or not.”

In a swirl of white lab coat, she’s gone. Foreman rolls his eyes extravagantly and walks out after her, on his way to the Clinic. Chase just smiles and goes back to reading his journal.


	55. Aftershocks 23.3: Milton Bradley

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** An evening's entertainment **  
****CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
**RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Milton Bradley**

 

"Y'gotta be kidding." Wilson's looking dolefully at the box that has just been set before him on the coffee table. House is giving him that curving little fishhook smile; he is kidding, but then again he's not. He sits down and pulls the lid off the thing: a game of _Operation_.

"It's on loan from Pediatrics," he says, but the light in his eyes says there was no "loan" at all.

"You stole it. Yer so weird."

"Says the man who organizes his ties by the weekday."

"Look in th' trash can."

"What?"

"Ties. Kitchen trash can."

"You did not."

"Did. Go see, if you don't b'lieve me."

"And fall victim to some evil prank? Fine, but not until _after_ we have killed this patient. Who, it turns out, has no genitalia."

"How bad could he really wanna live?"

"Exactly! Too bad," House muses, "they don't explain how he lost his tools."

"Divorce?"

" _Oh_ , Jimmy. I'd say that was cold, but I'm not the one who's oh-for-three."

"Hey, this's not fair. You get to use y'good hand."

House scoffs and gets to his feet. When he clomps off down the hall, Wilson figures there's been a change of mood and that the game's off.

And then House reappears with his right arm in the shower sling. Over the week, Wilson's become so accustomed to its outrageous ugliness that he barely even sees it anymore. But on House, the effect is astounding. The colors vibrate angrily against one another and collide at the edges with his red t-shirt. Wilson can't help chuckling.

"Bee- _hold_ the Spandex _gloh-ry_ , my brother," House pronounces, Baptist-preacher style. "And I thought your _ties_ were atrocious," he adds, as he flops gracelessly onto the sofa beside Wilson. " _I_ say you really should pitch 'em. First step in fashion rehab."

"Was nothin' wrong with 'em. But, toldja. Already did."

"Are you _sick_ , Jimmy?" House gives him that blinking look of mock concern, and puts his free left hand on Wilson's forehead as if checking for fever. "Or are you an alien pod person? 'Cause if you ate Wilson's brain, that'd be -- well, the portion size wouldn't even have been worth -- _ow!_ "

"Sorry," Wilson deadpans, as if he didn't really _mean_ to jab his right elbow into House's ribs. "We gonna play, or not?"

So they play, the matched set of them, wrong-handed sling-wearing killers of eunuchs. That's how House describes them. Naturally House cheats, like the bastard he is. He does anything he can to destroy Wilson's concentration right at the critical moment. Wilson thinks of stabbing him with the tweezers, but decides against it, choosing instead to take a drink from his ever-present bottle of water. And then to pour a few drops of that water down House's back and--

_BZZZZZT_

House retaliates by deciding that it's time for a beer. Damn him and his flaunting of food and booze. He shuffles into the kitchen, where -- as Wilson knew it would -- his curiosity overtakes him. Wilson can hear the thunk of the trash can lid.

"Good _God!_ There's enough silk in here to ... do something really witty that I can't think of right now." The fridge opens and there's a heavy clinking of glass, and then House is back with _two_ bottles -- and one of Wilson's small plastic juice cups. "Your weepy, alcohol-deprived puppy faces are annoying," he announces, pouring a few ounces of beer into Wilson's cup.

"It's too soon," protests Wilson. "I shouldn't --"

"Okay!" House reaches for the sad little cup, but Wilson finds himself snatching it first. 

"Knew you'd want it. You're as bad as me. Admit it."

"You'd be drinkin' Scotch," Wilson quips. "This's not a drink. It's ... a condolence prize."

"So," House ponders, and sips greedily from his bottle, "wonderful as this news is, I've _got_ to know." He leans back on the sofa and regards Wilson with intense curiosity. "What would cause James Wilson to send his precious pieces of neckwear to that Great Tie Rack in the Sky?"

"No," says Wilson, pausing to savor the taste of beer for the first time in what seems like years. "You don' _hafta_ know. You wanna." Suddenly, he sounds a lot more serious than he meant to be. He didn't mean to be talking about this at all. "Think you wanna know, but you don't."

" _Thinking_ I want to know is the same thing as _wanting_ to know. Knock off the semantics."

"I din't like the taste." The words come out before his surprised brain can stop them. He doesn't want to think about this now. He's not even sure why the hell he told House about the ties in the first place.

" _Taste?_ You know, you're not supposed to --"

Wilson glances over at him, willing him to either understand or shut up. Better yet, understand _and_ shut up. House shuts up. The understanding takes only a few more seconds. There's a dawning horror in his eyes as the picture becomes clear. He looks down, fingering the strap of the spandex sling.

"That's what they used," he says, with quiet finality. "That's -- God, Wilson."

"Not 'they.' Just -- _him._ " Wilson's staring straight ahead, into space, because he can't look at House and say these things. "Rest of th' time, I could scream if I wandid. Didn' help." In his peripheral vision he sees the flash of neon as House takes off that stupid sling and tosses it over the naked _Operation_ man.  He wonders whether that gesture means House will have mercy on him, too.

"His name," says House, who is studying the floor, "is Martin."

"Oh."

"I never wanted you to know about him."

"Makes two've us." Wilson's silent for a while, his head throbbing at the thought of whatever might have happened to House all those years ago. He was only fourteen, and the monster was five years older, and that means House wouldn't have stood a chance. All House said was that he'd seen something Grey Eyes did. Wilson knows there's got to be more to it than that; House had to have suffered something worse than simply _seeing_.

"Whaddid he do t'you?"

House takes a long draw from his bottle of beer. "I owe you that story," he says, his voice soft, "but not now. Put it on my tab."

Wilson doesn't push. It's amazing that House has admitted there's a _story_ at all, and anyway, Wilson's sick of this conversation. A minute ago he was almost happy, wasn't he? They'd been having fun. The game has lost its appeal, so Wilson wedges the pity beer between his knees and grabs the TV remote that's lying on the arm rest. He's hoping that House will just _be House_ , in all his obnoxious splendor. So he turns on _Trading Spaces_.

"Do you watch _anything_ that isn't lame? **Give!** "

Wilson feigns irritation as the remote vanishes from his hand. He can count on House to find something suitably stupid and tasteless. The manic channel-surfing no sooner starts, though, than it stops again. House sits still and looks at him.

What House wants is permission to touch. The request is halting, but open in its intent. He stretches out his hand toward Wilson's shoulder and then stops short, leaving room. There's a guarded, subtly questioning expression, all the disclaimers written clearly on his face: _No big deal, I don't really care._ Wilson, however, can read the fine print, which says _Let me_. Wilson's adept at playing dumb, as if he doesn't see the stark loneliness and the fear that House is hiding. He's pretending he doesn't know that House _must_ grab hold of something and that if he can't reach his friend, he'll take whatever else he can find. The things House finds are never good for him.

As strange as this touching sometimes feels, Wilson always allows it. He leans very slightly to the right, toward House, who scoots closer even as he resumes the flipping of channels. He pushes his arm between the sofa cushions and Wilson's back, deftly avoiding the sore spots. They're close enough now so that Wilson can feel it when House chuckles, having finally found something to watch.

" _Xena?_ "

"Don't knock it, Jimmy. Her outfit won an Emmy for best supporting role."

"I like th' blonde. Gabrielle."

"You _watch_ this? Loser." He changes the channel.

"You _don't?_ I's lesbians'n leather."

" _WHAT?_ " House's eyes open wide, and then narrow in suspicion. "You're messing with me."

"You didn' know?" Wilson marvels, and snorts at him. "How c'd you not know? Yer hopeless." He would tell House to change it back, but House is already on it. Maybe this will be a decent evening, after all.


	56. Aftershocks 24.1: In Under the Radar

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** There has to be a reason for this kind of avoidance. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Chase, Foreman **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

**  
In Under the Radar  
**

"Leave me out of it” is practically Foreman’s mantra these days, Chase has noticed. Bad news or good, questions or gossip, whether House’s mood is surprisingly upbeat or particularly foul, Foreman continues on his way. If it doesn’t have to do with a patient, he doesn’t want to hear about it.

Of course, Foreman’s always tried to hold himself apart to one degree or another, at least enough that he can convince himself that he’s doing it all on his own. But Chase can usually fly in under the radar, get Foreman to bend that tiniest bit and relax just enough to show he’s human.

Not lately, though.

For the past few days, since Chase got back from getting his butt kicked in Trivial Pursuit by Wilson, he’s been trying to convince Foreman to take a turn. Wilson needs company, someone other than House, and it’s a chance to get out of the hospital for a while and earn brownie points from House…

“There’s nothing I can do to help,” Foreman snaps, “since amazingly enough the people who beat the hell out of the man did not inflict any brain damage.”

“It’s not a medical consult,” Chase replies, blinking. “It’s just a visit.”

“It’s not my problem.” They've just come out of the lab, having finished the follow-up tests that prove their patient's getting better as quickly as they thought. Foreman stalks away down the hall, and Chase hurries to catch him. Grabbing at the sleeve of Foreman’s lab coat causes the man to spin back around; Chase has to press sideways into the nurses' station to avoid getting clocked.

“What is the big deal?” Chase demands.

“Not a big deal,” Foreman insists, although his fists are clenched. “But as I think I’ve mentioned before, _House_ is Wilson’s friend. He’s the one with the obligation.”

The pause before the word “obligation” is practically infinitesimal, but Chase catches it. He’s been wondering if there was something more to Foreman’s standoffishness recently, and now he just might have it.

He steers the two of them around the corner to a peaceful little nook with a window. Foreman’s looking at him strangely, but he presses on anyway, asking quietly, “What’s your brother in jail for?”

Chin dropped, eyebrow up, Foreman is at his most skeptical. “Why are you changing the subject?”

“What’s he in prison for?” Chase repeats, taking quick glances at Foreman and then looking away again, giving Foreman some space.

When Foreman remains stonily silent, Chase points out, “It’s a public record. I could look it up. I’d bet House already has.”

“Drug charges,” Foreman finally spits out.

Chase nods a few times. He realizes he probably looks something like a Golden Retriever puppy, but that’s fine. He thinks Foreman might trust dogs.

“Just that?” he asks quietly.

Now it’s Foreman’s turn to nod, but he doesn’t mean yes. He leans against the wall and looks out the window to the grounds below. “And assault during the course of a robbery.”

Chase mirrors his stance, against the wall on the opposite side of the window. They look out for a few minutes, gazes crossing. There’s a bit of wind outside, picking up leaves and small pieces of paper and swirling them around. Eddies and currents, and things that were far apart end up close together.

“You were right,” Chase says, and he thinks Foreman might be looking at him, but he doesn’t move his eyes to check. “Wilson’s not your problem. But he’s a good guy, and you might find it interesting to hang out with him for a couple of hours. If nothing else, he’s a font of trivia. I mean _seriously_.”

Foreman pushes away from the wall, and Chase does too. At first they're walking toward the conference room, but Chase steers them toward the stairs instead. The cafeteria would be good, grab a bite to eat.

“The Trivial Pursuit basic edition is what you played, right?” Foreman asks. “With all those movie posters, I'm betting he does best in Entertainment.”

“History and Geography, actually,” Chase replies, and pushes open the door to the stairwell. “You can catch him out on a lot of the Entertainment ones because his knowledge of pop culture seems to stop at like 1975.”

“What about Sports?” asks Foreman, and Chase thinks maybe he’s gotten in under the radar again.  



	57. Aftershocks 24.2: The Little Things

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Interludes from Wilson's world **  
****CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
**RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
****  
The Little Things** **

****

 

****Daytime television is about as appetizing as Ensure, and not nearly as nutritious. Wilson hates it, with one exception.

He watches _General Hospital_ because—because he's pathetic, really. Because that means that there's at least one person with whom he's connected, right then, in a strange and foolish way that probably means nothing. He likes the idea, though. House is sitting somewhere in the clinic, or alongside the Coma Guy, or in whatever new hideout he's found, watching the same scenes and suffering through the same ads for minivans and maxi pads.

Later, over dinner they'll gossip about who got who knocked up and whose long lost evil twin has resurfaced and which actress had a boob job since last season. Well, House will gossip, mostly; talk's not as cheap for Wilson as it used to be.

 

* * *

House brings home Slurpees. The first one was Gatorade flavored and arrived in the standard paper cup. The second was blue raspberry, in an enormous plastic _Spider-Man_ mug. Every time he does this, House tries to top himself. By the fifth time he's making crazy concoctions, two or three flavors layered together, like Wilson used to do when he was in grade school.

They're absolutely awful, but Wilson discovers that he likes them. And so far, nothing masks the flavor of liquid oxycodone quite as well as a cherry Slurpee. He'd never have known this if it wasn't for House; but then he'd never have needed liquid oxycodone in the first place, if it wasn't for House.

 

* * *

One of the first things Wilson had discovered, upon waking up with his jaw wired shut, was that he couldn't lick his lips. This simple fact is now the source of constant distress, partly because it feels so wrong to be unable to do such a small thing. It's remarkably claustrophobic to have his tongue trapped that way, and also he's now the poster child for Chapstick. He absolutely mustn't run out.

When he first asked for lip balm, the stuff House brought him was pink and flecked with delicate glitter, which House pretended not to have noticed when he bought it. Since he was helpless to go get anything better, Wilson used it for three days. That's how long it took for House to have mercy and bring something else, less fairy-princess.

The replacement balm is faintly green. It smells like watermelon, and the tube bears the likeness of the Incredible Hulk. It's a vast improvement. With House, you take what you can get.

 

* * *

They already had a good system of silent communication, but their vocabulary of expressions, signs and signals has expanded in a hurry. It's not that Wilson can't talk, it's that he sounds like the lousy speaker system at the Burger King drive-through. It takes so much effort to enunciate when he can't move his jaw.

So Wilson's got a hand sign for _water_ and one for _coffee_. There's a sign for _Gimme the remote_ and at least a dozen variations that all mean _Shut up, House_. And of course there's the ubiquitous middle finger.

One afternoon, because he's bored, he looks up obscene gestures on the internet and discovers interesting hand movements from around the world. He's always meant to learn a foreign language; he toys with the idea of figuring out how to flick House off in Japanese.

The Japanese seem to be too polite for such things. He can't find a single reference to a gesture with that meaning. The Europeans are too obvious about it, thrusting their whole arm into the air. He settles on the British solution, and the next time House irritates him, Wilson makes that backhanded "victory" sign. And it works. Sort of. House doesn't shut up and he doesn't go away, but he does smile.  



	58. Aftershocks 24.3: A Walk in the Park

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** _"We're going to the park."_ **  
****CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson **  
**RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**A Walk in the Park**

 

Wilson groans loudly as he lands with a _thump_ on the couch next to House. House hadn't thought it possible, but Wilson's various noises have become even more expressive since his jaw was wired shut. He recognizes the feelings behind this particular groan almost instantly: a combination of frustration, generalized irritation, pain, and cabin fever. Not surprising, since Wilson hasn't left the apartment (save for the hospital visits) in ... _two weeks_.

He clicks off the television.

"Come on," he says and elbows Wilson's right bicep gently. He grabs his cane and hauls himself off the couch.

Wilson just looks up at him and huffs softly through his nose. His expression says, "I just sat down."

"I know you just sat down," House replies and holds out his free hand. "But I _also_ know it's a nice day outside, you showered this morning and are thus somewhat presentable, and that you are thoroughly sick of looking at my arguably very interesting living room. We're going to the park."

Wilson frowns.

"'You'll heal better if you're up and moving,'" House says in a high falsetto. "Sound familiar?"

Wilson narrows his eyes and grunts. "S'not the same," he says.

"But it _is_ the same, or close enough to it," House grumbles. "I needed those trips."

"You hated those trips."

"I only complained to keep up my reputation." House holds his hand out again. "You'll thank me later."

"You thank'n me now?"

House rolls his eyes and lets out an eloquent snort of his own.

Wilson's eyes sparkle a little as he reaches for House's hand.

 

* * *

It _is_ a beautiful, sunny day, and the park is populated largely by moms and boisterous kids. House and Wilson settle themselves on a bench at the very edge of the park.

Wilson sighs. This one is tired, but content.

"Two blocks takes it out of you, hmm?" House observes and stretches his right leg out a little.

"Surprise," Wilson murmurs. He stretches his shoulders back against the bench, keeping his gaze down. His face is barely visible under the trucker hat he had insisted upon borrowing — he looks closer to normal than he has in a long time, but he's still obviously nervous about being in public. His lips stretch oddly over the equipment in his mouth and the bruising has faded to a mottled yellow-green. Frankenstein's monster would probably be less conspicuous.

House watches the set of Wilson's shoulders slowly relax as they sit in the sun and most everyone passes by them without a second glance. House starts to unwind, too; he'd never admit it, but the sunshine does a lot to improve his mood. A few more days like this and House might even begin to believe things are on their way back to normal.

The burst of anger, finally, from Wilson, and House's long-overdue confession, had been like lancing a boil. Tuesday morning was slightly awkward, with their graceless attempts to get out of Wilson's bed while not acknowledging the presence of the other. The awkwardness lasted until House went to fetch breakfast and Wilson asked for a grande mochaccino with sprinkles. House unthinkingly told him to blow it out his ass. They had both stared at each other for a moment, and Wilson blinked, long and slow like an owl. Then they dissolved into laughter—well, House had laughed. Wilson _giggled_ , sounding like that muffled-up kid on _South Park_.

Since then they've both been cutting back on their meds.

House lets his gaze drift around the park. He starts making up stories about the other park-goers, but something about the way Wilson's sitting stops him from breaking the silence.

_She's wondering why she ever agreed to bear his crotch-fruit and wishing she could go back to work. That one's worried because she doesn't look half as perfect as all the other moms. That kid's a samurai fighting for justice and the kiss of a pretty girl. And that guy_ —

That guy, in a silk suit, with a pink _Financial Times_ tucked under his arm, is giving him a jaunty little wave. That guy is looking right at him, House is sure. Even obscured by sunglasses, icy grey eyes are meeting his.

All the panic buttons in his brain light up, every switch is thrown wide open, and adrenaline floods his veins with icewater and heat. It takes all of House's considerable willpower to _calmly_ turn to Wilson and _quietly_ suggest they leave.

Wilson's eyes slide sideways to look at him from under the cap. "We jus' got here," he hisses.

"I'm hot." House puts his best whine into his voice to cover the tremor. "And all those damn kids, they're screaming." He had thought the hat was ridiculous when Wilson first put it on, but now he's thankful for it. _Don't look up,_ he silently begs. _Don't look up, don't argue with me, don't look up._

Wilson sighs _and_ groans with a little exasperated huff at the end, which says, "And you're probably worried the sunshine will make you burst into flames, so we need to return to the Batcave straightaway." But he starts to push himself up off the bench.

By the time Wilson's finished, House is on his feet and standing between Martin and Wilson. House grabs his elbow and turns them to go.

Wilson shrugs House's hand away and growls, "'M _fine_."

House pushes them into a slightly-too-fast pace. "I know," he snaps under his breath. "But we need to get home."

Wilson keeps up, barely. "House, what the hell?"

"I think I left the iron on."

Wilson snorts, but follows him home without any more questions.  



	59. Aftershocks 24.4: Wednesday in the Park with Martin

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** When you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself.  
 **CHARACTERS:** OMC, House and Wilson.  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day. The author of this section also wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of two outside sources. Their identities will be revealed, for proper credit, at the final unmasking.

  
**Wednesday In the Park With Martin**

 

It's a beautiful, sunny day, and the park is populated largely by moms and boisterous kids. Martin settles himself on a bench at the very edge of the park, and permits a small sigh of tiredness to escape as he unfolds his newspaper.

_Getting older,_ he thinks ruefully. _Still haven't recovered from jet lag and it's been two days._

The Air France flight had been uneventful, the Business Class food superb. He had chatted politely with the flight attendants, and had later been amused to overhear them talking about the nice American businessman in 13A who spoke such excellent French.

Before that, in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, he'd sat through PowerPoint presentations in banquet halls filled with large men with high Slavic cheekbones. They'd all seemed to be named Oleg or Alexei—Russian _Organizatsiya_ members who insisted on clapping him on the back and calling him _nazvany bratan_ , a _sworn brother_. Or, in the truest slang sense of the phrase, a _bro_. Ice-cold vodka and glistening black caviar direct from the fisheries in Astrakhan had been served at every meal—these were not the kind of men concerned with the fate of the imperiled Caspian sturgeon. They thought the Sierra Club was an exclusive American spa for rich Californians.

Martin had nodded, and talked, and nodded some more, and smoked endless rounds of cigarettes in small rooms so blue with tobacco it had made his eyes water. Through it all, in the back of his mind, he'd been thinking of his previous assignment from Georgie Reno. And the more he had thought, the more curious he had become.

His first day back in New York had been a virtual repeat of his time in Russia—an appointment book crowded with meetings in stifling, smoke-filled rooms. Some of the same _Organizatsiya_ men had been there, their sharp eyes hooded and wary in the unfamiliar city-scape.

There had been vodka, but no beluga. The American fare was aged prime sirloin and equally prime single malt, and the attendees had wolfed down the steak from bloody plates and demanded more.

At night he went back to his quiet, well-lit room at the Four Seasons and tried to read a few pages of his old copy of Xenophon's _Anabasis_ , but he had to put the book down, unable to concentrate. It wasn't until the afternoon of the next day, when a _Mafiya_ chieftain had greeted him with _"Zdorovo, bratan!"_ and he'd looked into the bluest eyes he had ever seen, that he'd finally realized what he had to do.

A follow-up. That's all, just a day trip to Princeton and back. Perhaps even talk to Greg again, or at the very least inquire discreetly about Dr. Wilson's condition from his other sources. It would be interesting to see if he had learned his lesson—that it was unwise for people like Dr. Wilson to befriend people like Greg House.

And so Martin had donned one of his most innocent and unobtrusive of guises, that of an insurance agent, and made some of those discreet inquiries. The information had been ridiculously easy to obtain; insurance agents were the true arbiters of the currency of knowledge, and people would tell them anything, hoping to gain an advantage over their neighbor. What he had learned had left him stunned.

Not only was Dr. Wilson on the road to recovery, he was recuperating at the private residence of one Dr. Gregory House.

_This,_ Martin had thought, after the shock had worn off, _I have to see._

 

* * *

Martin leans back on the park bench and stretches out his long legs, waggling his feet a little to flex his ankles. The sun feels good on his shoulders—it had been a cool summer in Russia, and New York seems perpetually shadowed these days.

In past reunions, all he had done was poke at Greg, minor provocations designed to get Greg to react, to acknowledge his presence. Perhaps it's time to raise the ante. Idly, he begins running small logistical exercises in his head.

_A small team. Three men. Classic invasion and extraction—commercial locks a minor inconvenience. Take the doctor to the cellar I used for the Roland contract and conduct a full interrogation. The man is already injured. He'll break in no time._

Almost as quickly as he thinks of it, Martin dismisses the idea. A team would obviously mean other people, and somehow that doesn't seem right for what should be a personal affair. This is a matter of _Martin's_ puzzlement, _his_ curiosity, _his_ compulsion to pull on the loose string until the woven garment unravels, giving up the secret of its weaving.

Besides, the answers he wants can only come from the two of them.

Something small-scale then, a one-man mission with everything he needs carried in a backpack, and what he'll need first in the pockets of a light jacket.

_Watch the apartment. Who comes, who goes. Greg is working; the insurance company said he'd cancelled the home health service. If he wants anyone to check on the doctor during the day he'll be sending someone he knows. So it would be someone from the hospital, which means they can't stay all day. Couple of hours at the most. When that person leaves, go in._

Martin stretches a little more and tilts his head back. He closes his eyes against the brightness of the sunlight. He'll keep this scenario running for a little while.

_Where's the phone? They're paying for a hospital bed, so there might be a cell phone on the bedside tray. Layout of the apartment can't have changed much in ten years, so the bed will be ... here._ Martin pinpoints a spot in his mind, between the bookcase and sofa. _Have to move fast, but I've got the element of surprise. The doctor will certainly never have expected to see **me** again._

The ambient noise of the park fades away as Martin works.

_He'll be getting up, trying to rise and reach for the phone at the same time. Stupid. Better off doing just the latter, but the human instinct is to **move** , classic fight or flight._ He stops the exercise for a moment, calculating distances. _I can cross that space in ... five or six good strides. Three or four seconds. Not enough time to react. He won't have made it to his feet, and if he has, he won't have made it away from the bed._

A small child screams nearby, but Martin ignores it.

_One punch, directly on the broken left clavicle. Take him right down. Shove him back onto the bed. Never mind his left hand, that'll still be in a sling. Get the right wrist secured to the guardrail. Standard leather restraints, Velcro tabs. Rip it open, slap it closed._ Martin's hands are resting lightly on his thighs. His fingers twitch. _Struggling? Punch him again, same place or in the nose. Not in the mouth. Need for him to be able to talk. Hold him down with my weight. Cut the sling, get that left wrist out and strapped. Watch out for his feet, the battle's already won and it would be stupid to get kicked in the head. Strap the ankles to the rails. Don't stop yet—recheck the restraints, pull them tight because he'll be fighting them. Rope in the backpack, you can use that if necessary. Done?_

Martin opens his eyes.

"Done," he whispers.

 

* * *

Martin uses the same hunting knife he'd cut the sling with to cut off the doctor's t-shirt and shorts. His captive has stopped struggling, but he grunts and tries to twist his hips away when the cold steel blade glides along his thigh. Martin pays no attention and continues stripping him.

"No," the bound man whispers, the word gritted out between wired jaws.

"Now, Doctor," Martin drawls. He tosses the pieces of clothing aside and lays a gentle hand on the man's warm stomach. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" He begins to rub the doctor's belly, then moves up to his prisoner's chest. He watches the doctor's face; the man has squeezed his eyes shut and is holding himself in a rigid, unyielding line. Martin allows his hand to drift lower and gives a playful tweak to the doctor's flaccid penis. The man gasps; his right hand clenches into a fist and he yanks helplessly at his tethers. Martin brings his hand back up and casually, almost as an afterthought, pokes roughly at the physician's healing splenectomy incision. The doctor jerks; the muscles and tendons in his shoulders and biceps stand out as he strains to pull his wrists free. Martin wraps one large hand around the doctor's throat and pushes him back down, holds him there until his captive stops struggling.

"We're going to have a talk now," Martin advises him softly.

"Go t'hell," the doctor whispers, and Martin feels the thrum of vocal cords beneath his palm, the rapid pulse of the carotid under his thumb.

The physician's eyes belie his defiance. They're welling with tears, the result of pain, humiliation, and the inability to lash out at his tormentor.

Martin's seen it all before.

"But you don't even know what we'll be discussing," he chides. "You wouldn't want to miss out on the surprise, now would you?"

He chuckles as the doctor's eyes widen.

"But first," Martin continues, "a libation, so you'll be in the right frame of mind to tell me all your little ... secrets." He looks around the room, then nods in satisfaction. The doctor moans as Martin pulls the IV stand from its storage place behind the piano.

"No," he murmurs, then _"No!"_ as Martin sets the rigging beside the bed. He begins to fight again, twisting and writhing, and in the end Martin is glad he brought the rope.

He works slowly, taking his time, and when he pulls the last cord taut with a tight knot, the doctor is unable to move. His eyes are wide and filled with terror, and he's still chanting that _"No!"_ as Martin wipes down a vein in the crook of his left arm with a cool antiseptic swab. A wordless wail rises in its place when Martin slips the cannula home.

"Compazine," Martin says calmly, as he secures the IV with surgical tape. "I'd rather you didn't choke on your own vomit before we've finished our little chat." He doesn't tell the doctor what's in the other syringes that he'll push into the drip.

A small amount of morphine—a gift. Versed, to relax the doctor's muscles and increase his sensation of helplessness. A low dose of ketamine, to reduce his social inhibitions and loosen his tongue. As backups, Martin has brought along sodium thiopental and LSD.

_For some reason,_ he thinks wryly, _interrogation subjects often find it easier to tell their deep, dark secrets to large pink rabbits._

Already the doctor's respiration is slowing, and his hands are limp in their shackles. His eyes have become glassy, the pupils shrinking, and he seems to be looking at something far away.

Martin smiles and brushes the doctor's tousled hair, damp with sweat, away from his forehead. His captive mumbles something and tries to turn his head aside but can't quite complete the motion. Martin settles back to wait for the cocktail of drugs to take full effect. Something nudges against his right leg, and he looks down.

 

* * *

Plaintive brown eyes are gazing into his own, and Martin blinks. The big black Lab pants happily, grinning a sloppy doggy grin, and pushes at Martin's leg again, urging him to take the slimy tennis ball it's holding in its big drooling mouth. The noises of the public park rise around them.

Martin curses—he's just broken one of his own cardinal rules, but at the same time he realizes it's better to drift off on a campus park bench in Princeton than, say, Moscow, where the Chechen _Obshchina_ might find him and set him on fire just for the hell of it. Even the strong men of the Russian _Organizatsiya_ had been scared of the Chechens. He's schooled himself to calmness and is petting the dog when a child, a little girl who can't be more than nine or ten, joins the animal.

"I'm sorry, mister," she pipes breathlessly. "Badge doesn't usually bother strangers like this."

"Quite all right," Martin reassures her. The dog pushes into his hand, and for a moment Martin takes pleasure in the sensual contrast of soft fur and the hardness of canine skull under the skin. He gently removes the ball from the animal's mouth and throws it—the dog gives a deep-throated _woof!_ of joy and bounds after it.

"Animals love me."

 

* * *

Martin picks up his newspaper again, but gives it only a cursory glance before he sets it back down.

_And then?_ He narrows his eyes, surveying the park. _I ask the doctor questions. When did he and Greg meet? How? All the answers, so that I'll understand the why and the wherefore, the seen and the unseen, what Greg takes and what, if anything, he gives._

A blue jay squawks at Martin from a nearby tree, and others of its kind take up the call.

_And when Greg walks in the door?_ Martin considers the question, turning it over in his mind and examining it from every angle. _He'll be ... surprised, at first,_ he admits. _But then his true nature will take over, after I show him what I've done. Greg has always had a sharp scientific curiosity, a brilliant, inquiring mind, and he'll be intrigued. Drawn in._

_What if the doctor objects?_ Martin rolls his shoulders in a mock shrug; the muscles are warm and loose now from the sun's heat. _Tape his mouth shut. He's not part of this conversation._ He looks around lazily. _As a matter of fact, the doctor's usefulness will be at an end anyway. Administer a surgical dose of pancuronium—the IV is already set up and the three or four minutes it takes for him to suffocate will be much cleaner than slitting his throat._

Martin stands up at last and rubs his palms together briskly. He tucks the paper under his arm and slips on his sunglasses.

_Everything's open, everything's a possibility,_ he thinks, then stares as a pair of familiar figures make their slow way into the park.

At first he laughs softly—the oversize green trucker's hat looks ridiculous on the doctor's head, but he's not really surprised by it. Many of Martin's guests in the past have felt the need to hide after experiencing his brand of hospitality.

He watches, amused, as the two men settle themselves on a bench. Dr. Wilson is obviously exhausted from the short excursion and doesn't raise his head. Greg, on the other hand, is alert, scanning the park for possible signs of danger.

_Good boy,_ Martin thinks approvingly. _Smart boy._ He continues to watch, willing himself into the background of other parkgoers as he sees Greg begin to relax, gradually letting his guard down. Only then does Martin raise his hand in a jaunty wave.

Greg's reaction is immediate—and gratifying. It's the shock of instant recognition, and yet he remains still, giving almost nothing away. What he does next, though, both surprises and puzzles Martin—Greg stands up, and places himself between Martin and the doctor.

_Well now._ Martin cocks his head, watching as Greg helps the other man to his feet. They leave the park even more slowly than they entered, and Martin takes note of every time they stop for a moment so that Dr. Wilson can rest.

He leans against Greg, and Greg allows it.

Martin stands for a long moment, lost in thought.

_I will have to ... give this more consideration,_ he concludes at last. _It was just a mental drill anyway—it would be an odd exercise, to say the least, to force a captive to talk about ... what? "Love"?_ Admittedly, it's a word with which Martin is unfamiliar, and it certainly has never come up in his line of work. Then again, this isn't work.

It _is_ a puzzle, though, and while Martin has always been attracted to puzzles, he's also a professional and knows he shouldn't get more involved than he already is.

No. He certainly shouldn't.

Still, he could make a _few_ more day trips.  
 _  
_Martin savors the stretch of his lips as he smiles. A small child begins to cry.  
 _  
_He'll watch. Observe. Play some small games. __

__And _then_ he'll decide.  


 

  
  


	60. Aftershocks 25.1: Nothing for It

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** House is back to the very beginning and there's nothing for it. **  
****CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson **  
**RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Nothing For It**

 

Martin was in the park. _Fuck_.

House had forced himself to go home, to pretend everything was as normal and sunny as before the trip to the park, to follow their new routine. When Wilson had fallen asleep, House began his pacing, slow and silent, checking every window.

_Fucking fuck_.

Wilson sleeps the sleep of the blameless, the well-medicated, the very exhausted.

House doesn't sleep. He already knows it's useless to try.

He can't go to work, leaving Wilson alone. Then again, he can't _not_ go to work. Wilson will have no patience for acquiring a new shadow; he's getting better and will practically shove House out the door.  He can't tell Cuddy a goddamned thing, can't even take it out on his minions because he was so fucking _cheerful_ that everybody noticed.

No one to tell, no one can know; House is back to the very beginning and there's nothing for it.

_Martin was in the fucking **park**. Waving._

He should have expected it, really. He should have known that this one 'professional' contact wouldn't have been enough for the bastard, that he would need _more_ to complete his cycle of fucking with House, that getting to Wilson wouldn't be close enough for that viper to _him_.

_To leave Wilson or not to leave Wilson. That is The Question._

Would he come after Wilson again? All the other times he's done this, he'd never once revealed his true nature to anyone House knew. Their faces reflect back at him in the windows: His mother, with Martin sitting next to her while he walked the stage at his high school graduation. Dr. Brightman, inviting Martin for coffee after an Epidemiology lecture. Stacy, exclaiming happily when her charming new client came to dinner and he turned out to be Greg's old _friend_.

But Wilson is different. Wilson knows.

Then again, Wilson was a job, a way to get House to pay Reno. House pauses at Wilson's bedside to listen to the rasp of his breathing, just for a moment, then continues on. What had Reno said? Martin was a _professional_. And the job is over; House paid.

So. House plays through all the possible scenarios as he paces. He weighs his knowledge of Martin with his knowledge of Wilson and plays the odds, which feels uncomfortably similar to what got him into this situation in the first place. If Martin wants Wilson, he'll take him, and nothing House could possibly do will prevent it. Oh, he could perhaps delay it, force Martin to change his plans, but...Martin will find a way. He always does.

In the end, though, Wilson isn't the one Martin wants. And Martin _wants_ House to react, to panic or flail or get angry; the son of a bitch gets off on it. The more House responds, the worse it will get.

So _this_ time, he won't panic.

House makes another silent circuit of the apartment.

 

* * *

House had replaced the locks the day after he'd decided Wilson was coming home with him. Now he wakes before Wilson and calls the lumberyard. He knows a new door won't stop Martin completely, but it might slow him down just long enough. He'd like nothing better than to bar the windows, too, or pack up and move to a fortress, but there's no way to explain any of it to Wilson.

At least he doesn't have to go to the hospital today, since he did his time in hell over the weekend. House spends the morning at his piano and watches out the window. He warns Wilson just before the knock comes.

Wilson looks up from his book and his eyes go wide, then narrow. He marks his place in his book, rolls off his bed and silently pads into House's bedroom.

Once the workers are gone, House heads for the bedroom and drops a set of keys on Wilson's book.

"New locks, new deadbolt, new steel-core door," House explains as he turns to leave. "Means you get shiny new keys."

"House!" Wilson says as loudly as he can, with a nervous little tremor. He's struggling to pull himself out of the mound of pillows he's nested on the bed. "The hell? Why now?"

House glances back. "Oh, calm down. I ordered it before any of this ever happened. _Somebody_ kept droning on and on about burglary rates going up until the boredom drove me insane enough to buy the stupid thing."

Wilson seems appeased; he settles back against the pillows again. "Should've told me."

House nods, once, and grunts, half-skeptical but admitting that he probably should have.

"But then, I know how hard it is for you to admit when 'm right," Wilson says in that teasing way of his. House scoffs and heads for the door.

"You should do the windows, too," Wilson calls after him. House stops, standing still in the doorway, and listens. "Thieves love windows."

House and offers up a silent thanks to whoever's listening and narrows his eyes at Wilson. "Okay, I'll bar the windows. Anything else?"

"A moat migh' be nice," Wilson murmurs. He's already turned his attention back to his book.

"I'm not digging a moat," he says testily, and Wilson snorts. "But I'll look into getting us a dragon."

"Ha," Wilson says, but he sounds sulky. "You _still_ shoulda told me."

"Yeah," he replies, and turns his head away so Wilson won't see the lie.  
 

  


	61. Aftershocks 26.1: Water Flowing Underground

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** And you may ask yourself -- well ... how did I get here?  
 **CHARACTERS:** Wilson and House.  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Water Flowing Underground**

 

The call comes through at 11:20, only minutes after Wilson's started his audio book again. He’s been listening to it all morning but has to take frequent breaks to give his body a rest. Laughter _is_ the best medicine, except when it’s jarring bones that haven’t quite healed.

He loves this book, though; so silly, so peaceful—three men and a dog going down a river. That it was written a hundred years ago and an ocean away does nothing at all to diminish its charm.

His listening has fallen back into the cadence of the British narrator, and it takes him a few minutes to even register the urgency in House’s voice coming out of the answering machine.

“…it. Pick up, Wilson! C’mon, c’mon, I _need_ you to pick up.”

Anxious, angry—he can’t even parse everything that’s in that tone, but it speeds his heart rate up a notch. He pauses the audio book and then stretches quickly for the phone—his cell is right next to him, but House’s land line is on the other side of the bed—wincing when his back and collarbone protest.

“Don’t email me. We have to talk, _now,”_ House barks. “Pick up, goddamn it!”

Wilson fumbles the receiver, and it slides into the sheets. Another twinge or two from his back as he twists, hand groping under the covers until he finds it. He’s breathing fast, from the exertion and discomfort and the stress in House’s voice, which echoes for a brief second, between the answering machine and phone: **“Wilson!”**

“’M here, damn it, here; keep your fuckin' shorts on!” He doesn’t like to curse usually, but fucking hell, why is House scaring him like this?

“What took you so long? Tending to Little Jimmy? You’d better not have touched my _Buxom Babes_ ; you’ve got to get your own subscription.”

Wilson sinks back into the bed and groans. “Puttin' it through the shredder soon as I hang up on you.”

“You wouldn’t,” House replies confidently. “The cover girl looks too much like Ex-Mrs. Wilson the First. She might want to put you through the shredder, but you couldn’t do it to her.”

“Didja have any _reason_ for makin' me answer the phone? Or just trying to give me 'drenaline poisoning?” Wilson hits the handsfree button on the phone, drops it into his lap, and reaches for his water bottle.

“Oh, that.” House’s voice is a bit muffled; Wilson shifts his legs to turn the receiver the right way up. “I need your help. It’s urgent.”

Enjoying the cool water sloshing around his teeth, he lets House hang for a moment.

“Wilson?” House calls nervously, and Wilson swallows, then snorts. Let the bastard squirm for getting him so worked up.

Relenting, as always, he replies, “’M here. What’s so urgent?”

“I hate them. They’re idiots, and I hate them.”

Wilson begs the ceiling to give him forbearance. “S'not a crisis; it’s yer worldview. Been yer worldview for—forever, s'far as I know.”

“But, see, today, their idiocy and uselessness has reached an apex never before seen or even imagined, so I need you to take them off my hands before I kill them and wind up in prison. Who’d make your smoothies then?”

“Cam’ron.”

“See? See my point? I’m sending them over now. Keep them for at least four hours, and if you can teach them the difference between pulmonology and cardiology while they’re there, so much the better.”

“Who're you talking about? Med students? Thought you weren't allowed to talk to 'em any more.”

House snorts. “Med students. Good one. Hey!” His voice simultaneously rises in volume and becomes more distant; he’s obviously yelling at someone across the room. “Wilson thinks you’re acting like first-years, and I’m inclined to agree!”

There’s an indistinct rumble, and a sharp “Yeah?” from House and then a loud _clunk._ Wilson sighs and drinks more water. He doesn’t even bother trying to interpret the other indistinct sounds that periodically drift into his ear over the next few minutes, just looks longingly at the nice little speakers at his bedside and daydreams about floating down the river from his audio book.

He’s trailing a finger through a refreshingly cool current when House comes back on the line. “Foreman and Chase will be there in fifteen.”

“A'right,” Wilson replies, but House has already hung up the phone.  
   


  


	62. Aftershocks 26.2: Banished

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** One of the classic blunders  
 **CHARACTERS:** Chase, Foreman, Wilson  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.   
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**Banished**

 

All the way over, Foreman bitched about House. 

Once in the door, he _might_ have said “Hello” to Wilson, but Chase can’t remember, as buried as the greetings were in Foreman’s avalanche of bitching about House. 

Chase followed Wilson into the kitchen to help him get drinks for everyone, while Foreman stayed in the living room. And kindly raised his voice so they could continue to listen to him as he bitched about House. 

Now Wilson’s in the bathroom – he walked down the hall quicker than was probably good for him, Chase noticed – and Foreman is… driving Chase right over the edge. 

“Hey, _Foreman_ ,” Chase says explosively, interrupting a string of synonyms for “arrogant.” 

From his perch on the piano bench, Foreman blinks twice and actually shuts his mouth, which leaves a nice empty silence for Chase’s next words. 

“Your grandmother was a slut.” 

Foreman’s look is one of pure bewilderment. “What?” 

“Slut. S-l-u-t.” Leaning back into the sofa cushion and tilting his head slightly, Chase thinks for a second. “I was sure that was a word used in American vernacular. Well, in case not, it means a woman of loose morals who has sex with a lot of men.” 

Now there’s some anger mixed in with the confusion. “Are you trying to play the dozens again? Because you really, really suck at it.” 

“Nope,” Chase says casually. “Not a joke.” 

“Then what the hell?” Foreman’s on his feet, stepping in front of Chase. His arms cross and his biceps flex. “How do you think you can get away with saying something like that about my _grandmother_?” 

Sitting up straight, Chase lets the anger flow to his own face, lets his mouth tighten and his gaze harden. “Maybe the same way you can come into a man’s _home_ , the only one he’s got, and insult the friend who’s taking care of him. And do it not once, but over and over and over.” 

“That’s –” Foreman takes a step back, and his brow furrows. His eyes lose some focus, turn questioning. “That’s different. It’s _House_ , and what I’m saying is true, not a lie, and –” 

Foreman backs up again and sits on the bench. After a pause, he finishes, “It’s nothing Wilson hasn’t heard before.” 

“But do you really think he wants to hear it now?” _Or ever?_ is the follow-up question in Chase’s mind, but as long as Foreman shuts up today, Chase’ll wait until tomorrow to worry about tomorrow. 

They sit in silence for a minute. Chase hauls the board game House insisted they bring over into his lap and opens up the box. It’s Risk, the game of global domination – completely House – and Chase tries to remember strategy from when he played this as a kid. His friends always tried to conquer Australia first, but was that strategy or just national pride? He gets a second to contemplate that conundrum before Foreman speaks up. 

“I’ll apologize,” he says with a determined nod. 

Chase rolls his eyes as he unfolds the game board onto the coffee table. “Or you could just drop it.” 

“But –” 

“Apologizing now would be about you, not him. Drop it.” He doesn’t bother looking up to see Foreman’s _don’t tell me what to do, damn it_ glare. “What color do you want?” 

Petulantly, Foreman retorts, “How do you even know he wants to play?” 

“’Zat Rshk?” Wilson asks eagerly, as he walks back into the room. “Bin ages since I played.” 

“The coffee table’s too low to be a comfortable playing surface,” Foreman comments, because he’s got to be right about something. 

Chase hides a smirk, and puts the board temporarily back into the box. “Where should it go then?” 

After a few false starts, they end up with the game on Wilson’s bedside table, which adjusts low enough that Chase and Wilson can reach it from the couch. The piano bench is a few inches taller, so Foreman has to stoop to roll the dice, but he seems to have accepted that as a penance. 

It takes a few minutes for the three of them to get used to the newer pieces of infantry, cavalry, and artillery. “Di’nt these used to be rum ’n nimmels?” Wilson asks, and Chase has to stop shuffling the cards, he’s so perplexed as to what _nimmels_ could be. His brain wants to turn the word into “nipples” but there’s no way in hell that’s right. 

“Yeah,” Foreman replies, laying down a piece in Brazil. “One, five, and ten. And, also a two or a three, I think.” He catches Chase’s confused look, and explains, “The pieces used to be plastic Roman numerals, remember?” 

“Oh,” Chase says, and claims Irkutsk. 

As the game progresses, Chase builds his base in Australia first and then slowly makes his way through Asia. Wilson gains a stronghold in Europe, while Foreman fortifies his troops in South America. North America and Africa are still being hotly contested when the phone rings and the answering machine clicks on. 

“Statistically, three dice is always the best bet when attacking,” House says without preamble, “and speaking of kicking someone’s ass, you’d better not have distracted Wilson from eating his lunch or my Nikes will be making contact with your backsides. Yours too, Wilson.” 

Chase is surprised to see that it’s almost one o’clock. “Sorry about that,” he says to Wilson, who has grabbed his cell phone and punched in the letters A-S-S. 

After sending the message off, Wilson tosses his cell back on the table and replies, “’M a big boy. Can handle m’own lunch.” 

“But why bother,” Foreman asks, standing and stretching, “when you can have Chase make it for you?” 

_Presumptuous git_ , Chase thinks, but dismisses him and follows Wilson into the kitchen. Last time, it wasn’t too hard to make Wilson a smoothie; he can certainly do it again. 

Wilson has the refrigerator door open and is staring glumly at the contents. “Not much here for you guys.” 

“No need. We picked up sandwiches at Subway on the way over.” 

Wilson’s lips stretch in what is clearly intended to be a sneer. He hands a recipe to Chase – cinnamon pumpkin milk shake – and then starts rummaging in a cabinet. “What kinda subs didja get?” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Turkey,” replies Chase. 

“Italian,” says Foreman, as he leans against the sink and watches Chase gather all the ingredients for the smoothie. 

“Here.” Wilson tosses a little bottle Foreman’s way, and Foreman catches it easily. For a second, Chase thinks it’s a pill bottle, but it doesn’t rattle. 

At Foreman’s questioning eyebrow, Wilson explains, “Seas’nin’ blend. _Ensure’s_ got more flav’r ’n those subs.” 

The thought would never have occurred to Chase – fast food is fast food – but when he tries it, the seasoning does give the sandwich a little spark. They’re all settled back in the living room, in different seats, by mutual unspoken consent taking a break from the game while they eat. 

Foreman, sitting on the other side of the couch, eats his sub gingerly, as if he’s never eaten from a plate on his lap before, which is kind of strange. Wilson notices and smiles down at them from the hospital bed, where he’s molded himself into the raised headboard so deeply that he looks like he’s being absorbed into the mattress. 

They pass the next few minutes companionably quiet, munching and sipping. Chase hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he took his first bite, and now he kind of wishes he had a second sandwich. Then he looks up at Wilson, whose face is every bit as sharp and thin as it was the last time Chase was here, and feels grateful that he’s even able to eat a sandwich at all. 

_Maudlin_ , he chastises himself, and he’s happy when Wilson starts the conversation again. 

“So why ’zactly were you banished today?” 

Foreman snorts loudly. Chase shoots him a warning look not to go off to the races again, but he’s just shaking his head. “For not being psychic.” 

Wilson raises an eyebrow and slurps his shake loudly. Chase explains, “We had what we thought was a really interesting case. The lab results from the medical history weren’t matching what we were seeing now, and Foreman and I thought the patient’s condition was taking a new course.” 

“Cam’ron?” 

“All-day Clinic duty,” Chase explains. 

“Based on everything we knew, it was the right conclusion,” Foreman insists, and crosses his arms. He’s still pissed at House, probably will be pissed for days, but he’s holding back from talking about it. Chase is kind of proud of him, as overly familiar as that may seem. 

Wilson’s eyebrow has never gone down; he’s obviously waiting for the punch line. 

“Massive transcription errors in the patient’s chart,” Chase confesses. “The numbers were all _correct_ , but had been recorded in the wrong places.” 

“It’s ridiculous, truly ridiculous,” Foreman interjects. 

“Chart err’rs or you not catchin’ ’em?” It’s a harsh question wrapped in a kind tone. Chase admires how Wilson can do that. 

Crumpling up his sandwich paper with more force than is necessary, Foreman leans forward. “That House expected us to know that the numbers had been flipped. They were all _reasonable_ , so there was no way to pick up that they weren’t correct. If we’d seen, say, a patient temperature of 200 degrees, we would’ve known something was up.” 

“Patt’rn didn’ seem strange?” 

Foreman shakes his head. “Of course it did. House wouldn’t take a case unless it was strange.” 

“Mm hm,” Wilson says, and puts down his shake. It’s obvious that he’s thinking something, but Chase doesn’t know what it is. “Wha’ happened to the patient?” 

“Transferred to Cardiology,” Chase replies. “Once we got the chart figured out, she was pretty much textbook. Boring, as House would say.” 

Wilson is slowly moving and turning to get off of the bed. It looks slightly painful, but Wilson’s eyes are twinkling. “’N to tranfer ’er you paged Michaels in Pu’m’nology ’stead of Michaels in Cardiology.” 

Another mistaken switch, on top of the numbers in the chart… When Wilson puts it that way, it is kind of funny. Chase lets out a chuckle, and even Foreman’s got a twinge of a smile. 

“How'd you know?” Foreman asks. 

“Hint from House.” Wilson’s off the bed, standing tall. “You wanna drink, go get one, ’cause I’m ’bout to kick yer feeble butts outta North America.” 

“You can try,” Foreman retorts on his way to the kitchen, and Chase laughs as he hands over the dice.


	63. Aftershocks 26.3: Victory

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** There's more than one way to conquer.  
 **CHARACTERS:** Foreman, Wilson, Chase  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**Victory**

 

The fighting is intense.

He’s always preferred guerilla actions – finely targeted goals accomplished with the ultimate in stealth and finesse – but this time the factions have amassed on all sides. There’s no choice but to press on with all-out war. After a skirmish goes horribly wrong, he gets chased out of Western Asia and has to fall back to his stronghold in Ukraine.

From there it’s a quick trip through Scandinavia to Iceland, dispatching the enemy as he goes. Rallying his resources from Venezuela, he’s able to rout the Black Forces, decimating and then obliterating them. Alberta is the last to fall, and he ignores the hiss of anguish as the lone final infantryman’s eleventh hour stand is crushed.

“Foreman, don’t be such a bastard; get Wilson his meds.”

“He’s got all the time in the world to get them himself now, seeing as how I’ve so soundly knocked him out of the game.” Foreman kicks his feet up on the coffee table to emphasize his point. Chase is a sucker if he thinks that sound of Wilson’s was anything more than disappointment at getting his ass handed to him.

The twinkle in Wilson’s expression as he rises carefully from the couch confirms Foreman’s assessment. Foreman watches him move with a clinical eye and concludes that much of the stiffness comes from sitting upright and in one position for too long. It’s a favor to Wilson, when you think about it, to give him an excuse to move by defeating him so he’s out of the game.

And it’s only a board game, not like it even means anything.

No, nothing at all. A child’s game, meant for pre-pubescent boys with nothing on their minds but silly tactics for sneakily swindling their way to achievement.

Chase’s ultimate win is conclusive proof of that.

Foreman snorts as his last country is taken by Chase: Argentina, the southernmost tip of the inhabited world. “They have some good skiing down there,” Chase notes, and Foreman rolls his eyes. Wilson is smiling at them from his spot back on the bed. He’s drawn a blue and white quilt around himself; Foreman wonders if he realizes he’s clutching the corner the way a kid with a security blanket would.

There are a few minutes of uncomfortable nothingness while Chase puts away the board game, and Foreman contemplates what to say next. Wilson probably hears all about the hospital from House, and Foreman can’t think of anything else they have in common. Different worlds. He can’t fathom why Chase has been at him to come over here.

“Well, while the two of us are here, want us to do anything for you?” Chase asks of Wilson, after stowing the game on one of the bookshelves. “Move the couch around? Push the TV further back?”

“Yer really askin’ for hard lab’r?” Wilson replies wryly. His lips are gleaming from the chapstick he just applied, and Foreman finds it disconcerting – too much like lip gloss. There are rumors that the first tube House got for Wilson was the little-girl glitter kind; Foreman shudders inwardly thinking of it.

Chase holds his hands out and shrugs in a _what can you do_ gesture. “You should take advantage of strapping young men when you’ve got them.”

Oh, Chase. _And you wonder why House makes ‘short shorts’ jokes around you._ Wilson starts choking, his polite cough having become tangled with what was probably an involuntary laugh.

Moving immediately to Wilson’s side, Chase asks, “You OK?” as he rubs gently on Wilson’s back. Wilson nods, still coughing, and waves his right hand in fast, needy circles. Foreman spots a nearby water bottle and hands it over.

After a few squirts of water and a few attempts at deep breaths, the coughing fit subsides. Now Wilson looks tired, but he still manages to smile at the two of them.

“Don’ need any fu’niture moved, but thanks,” he says, sinking back onto the bed. Chase wanders back to the bookcase and starts idly reading titles.

“Good,” Foreman replies, as he sits on the couch, “because I’m a doctor, not a mover.”

Chase throws him a strange look, then catches Wilson’s gaze and adds, “Jim.”

When has anyone ever called Wilson “Jim”? His colleagues call him “James” – even his wife Julie, in the one time Foreman met her, called him “James.” Foreman’s still puzzling when he realizes Wilson is choking again, lighter this time.

“No,” Wilson says after a second, looking over at Chase’s ridiculously beaming grin. “Not gonna laugh. My ribs’ve bin tickled ’nough.”

What? What obscure thing –

“Star Trek,” Chase explains. “McCoy on the first Star Trek used to say that all the time. ‘Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a bricklayer.’”

Lord, the hilarity never stops.

Chase turns toward Wilson again. “Seriously, though, anything you’ve been wanting to do that we can help with?”

Wilson sighs, a loud exhale through his nose. “Not really. Yer remindin’ me, though: bin a while since I cooked. Kinda miss it.”

Foreman’s never thought about it before, but now he puts two and two together. House waxed rhapsodic last year about Wilson’s pancakes and salads and other assorted leftovers, and to get a compliment out of House, you’ve got to be at the absolute peak of your game. But Wilson’s been living in a hotel, according to rumors, for months and months, no kitchen at all. Shame for a talent to languish like that.

“What’s your favorite?” he asks, sitting on the couch and kicking back.

“’talian,” Wilson says immediately. “Sauces, fresh pasta. ’N soups. I make a mean cioppino.”

Nothing better than homemade soup. Foreman can practically taste it. “My grandmother had this great beef stew she made. It was excellent. Every time I’d see her I’d beg for some.”

“Yeah?”

“Guess you can’t have stew now,” Foreman says sympathetically.

“Can have blend’d stew. Had a fried chicken smoothie one day.”

Foreman can feel his lip curling; Chase looks a little green. Wilson chuckles at them and points out, “Sweet shit gets old fast.”

He can imagine it’s true, but still. Liquid fried anything – ugh. Blended beef stew might not be too bad, though. Or even simply the broth base of Gran’s stew would be delicious. “Where’d we put your laptop?” he asks.

“What?” Wilson and Chase ask at the same time. Their expressions even match, and that’s weirder than Foreman wants to think about.

He repeats, “Laptop. I want to get my Gran’s stew recipe.”

“What, you have it in your email or something?” Chase asks.

Like he’s a woman, sharing recipes around. It’s on his cousin Tanisha’s family website. “Or something,” he replies, as Wilson gestures toward a table tucked into a corner. Chase obediently retrieves the computer.

“Wireless?” Foreman asks as Wilson awkwardly punches in the password.

“Yep. Here ya go.”

Foreman sits on the side of the bed, careful not to jostle Wilson too much, and pulls the computer onto his lap. Wilson draws his legs back, and Chase drops into the vacant spot and leans over Foreman’s shoulder.

As Foreman pulls up the website, intellectually he thinks that three men sitting on a bed together is odd and ought to be uncomfortable. But it’s not. It’s probably the Foreman family site that’s doing it – bringing up good memories of sleepover weekends with his cousins, piling into the same bed for warmth in the winter and to drive each other crazy with the heat in the summer. Good times.

He clears his throat to get rid of phlegm that’s appeared for no reason and clicks through to the right page. “Here it is, Gran’s beef stew. Oh, and her greens, too. Those are great. Kim makes them every year at Thanksgiving. Or, I assume she still does; I haven’t, um, been in a while.” He looks back, and is surprised to see Wilson’s face so close. He pushes the laptop back in Wilson’s direction. “Here you go.”

Wilson eagerly pulls the laptop close and settles it on his lap. “Looks w’nnerful.” He sighs. “I’d love to make it.”

Surprised, Foreman shrugs. “Well, go ahead then. It’s not copyrighted. Although I think Gran’s third husband tried.”

“Your grandmother _was_ a slut!” Chase pipes up chirpily, and Foreman’s ready to kill him.

“Hey, hey, now,” Wilson warns. Foreman nods to thank him, and then realizes Wilson’s probably defending his own serial marriages. Widowed three times over sixty years is substantially different from divorced three times before age forty, however. And with the poor health care black men generally have received, it was almost a given that a black woman of his grandmother's age would be widowed at a fairly young age –

“Sorry,” Chase says, breaking Foreman’s train of thought. Foreman turns to glare, but Chase is doing that big-eyed, soft-faced _Don’t kick little innocent me_ thing. Bastard.

Foreman’s holding himself back from shoving Chase off the bed just to watch him drop when Wilson distracts him with a loud sigh. “Thanks, Foreman. Can’t make the rec’pe yet but I’ll save it.”

“Why can’t you make it?” Chase asks.

Wilson pats the sling on his left arm, then touches his clavicle once. “Too hard t’chop with one arm.”

“There you go!” Chase says eagerly and bounces off the bed. “That’s what we can help you with. We chop, you cook.”

“Nah,” Wilson replies, but it’s wistful.

“Foreman?” Chase prompts.

“Sure, why not? As long as we can take some home with us.” He ignores the faintly disapproving look on Chase’s face in favor of the smile spreading across Wilson’s.

“Will you go get the ’ngred’ents? I should get some rest now anyway.”

Five minutes later they’re out the door on the way to Foreman’s grocery store, shopping list downloaded to his phone. There’s a butcher down the street that he’s heard is good; they’ll pick up the beef there.

Chase yammers the whole time about this and that, and some of it’s amusing and some Foreman tunes out. They manage to hit the produce section just as new stock’s being laid out, so the vegetables are fresh, and there are fresh-baked loaves at the bakery, too. Foreman’s not much of a cook generally, but he’s actually looking forward to this. Gran would be proud. Surprised, but proud.

Climbing out of the car in front of House’s, Chase frets that they might interrupt Wilson’s nap if they go back in too soon. “We’ll be quiet,” Foreman replies, trying not to roll his eyes.

Their hushed entry doesn’t wake Wilson up, but it does make him drop his phone and fumble for the remote. “– not your baby!” screeches out of the television before the screen goes blank.

Pinking slightly, Wilson retrieves his cell and says a hurried, “See ya later,” to whomever – _House_ – is on the line.

“Jes flippin’ channels,” Wilson tries to explain as Foreman and Chase pass by on their way to the kitchen. They trade amused smiles and start unpacking the groceries.

The next half-hour is filled with peeling, chopping, and mixing. Foreman thought Wilson was relaxed before as they were playing Risk, but here, with the smell of fresh food and seasonings rising all around them, Wilson is truly in his element. He guides them through all the steps; gently corrects any mistakes; seasons, stirs, and samples.

As the soup is simmering, they kick back with beers and fruit juice, and Foreman finds himself telling them stories about when he was young. About his Gran, who was an excellent cook, and his Nana, who was most definitely not, and his mother, who could bake like no one else.

It’s probably just the soup steaming up the kitchen, but Foreman hasn’t felt this warm in a while. He thinks maybe he’ll call Tanisha tonight, or Rodney or Bill, and see how they’re doing.

He wouldn’t have imagined that House owned Tupperware, but when it’s time to go, Wilson manages to scare up two big bowls from somewhere so Chase and Foreman can each take some of the stew home.

“It smells exactly like Gran’s,” Foreman says as his farewell, and when Wilson smiles, Foreman can see his whole, healthy face behind the bruises, bumps, and wires.


	64. Aftershocks 26.4: Jaguar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Wilsonian cooking is just what he needs.

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Some Wilsonian cooking is just what he needs.  
 **CHARACTERS:** House  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Jaguar**

 

Wilson had mentioned earlier that he had been feeling like cooking something, and the fellows did their jobs and indulged him, with the end result being a _vat_ of undoubtedly excellent beef stew. House is eager to get home. Clinic duty had been a pain in a lot of people's asses—he hadn't exactly been gentle with the crotch-rot swabs. With the frustration added to his sleeplessness since the park, House feels like the walking dead; he's barely able to keep the bike upright. Some Wilsonian cooking is just what he needs.

As he sits at the stoplight with his mouth watering at the thought of what's happening in his kitchen, a long, sleek silver hood pulls smoothly into his peripheral vision. A slim black cigarette lands alongside his front tire and drags his attention to the driver sitting next to him.

House is glad he's wearing sunglasses; the only place he's never been able to hide his reaction is his eyes. He can feel his exhaustion disappear as his palms go slick inside their gloves.

The fucking viper is sitting there, not an arm's length away, watching the traffic with a serene expression on his face. He glances over, an unholy sparkle in his grey eyes, and smiles.

Then the light turns and the Jaguar purrs as it glides away.

House ignores the honks behind him and guns the bike. He makes it home even faster than usual, curses when he forgets to unlock the deadbolt in addition to the regular lock, and pants a sigh of relief when he gets the door open to the rich smell of potatoes and beef. He forces his breathing to slow as he watches Wilson listen to his audio book, his quilt pulled up to his chin and a little smile on his lips as a voice with a pretentious English accent floats from the laptop speakers.  
 

   


	65. Aftershocks 26.5: Conundrum

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** _Doctor Wilson seems to mock him ..._  
 **CHARACTERS:** OMC  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**Conundrum**

 

Xenophon still isn't holding his attention, so Martin puts down the book once again.

He piles pillows -- huge, cool, down-filled pillows -- against the headboard of his bed so that he can recline there, much as Doctor Wilson probably reclines in bed these days. 

James Evan Wilson. What a curious creature. To all appearances, merely another soft-boned white-collar animal, wagging his tail as he's led about on a leash of other people's expectations. And yet for his friend he'd chosen Gregory House. It didn't make sense. 

Martin picks up the remote and turns the television on. He keeps it on CNN, leaving the volume all the way down so he can read the scrolling words at the bottom of the screen, but not have his thoughts interrupted.

Osama bin Laden has just released another tape. 

People are dying by the dozens in some part of Mexico where the water won't stop rising.

A hurricane is heading for Texas, again. Category five. 

A Florida real estate mogul has drowned in a boating accident. Martin smiles at the easy gullibility of the media. Those kinds of men don't have accidents. He turns to the Weather Channel, continuing to think while he waits for the eastern seaboard forecast.

He still hasn't reached a good conclusion about Doctor Wilson.

Back when he first began observing Greg at the hospital, Martin had assumed that the mundane-looking Wilson was some sort of sycophant. He had at first glance seemed to be the sort who would cling like a parasite to one much better and brighter than himself.

That idea could not stand in the face of the things Martin saw as he continued to shadow them. There was Greg's possessive snatching of Wilson's food, and the _familiar_ way they had argued. There was the frustration written clear on Greg's face as he watched the other man's retreating back; the visible threads of a connection of some kind. Visible enough that -- particularly after Martin had his little talk with Michael Tritter -- Doctor Wilson had become his chosen target.

The choice had been right. Greg had paid. 

That was supposed to have been the end of it. Georgie Reno would get his money, and Greg's odd little bond with Doctor Wilson would be ruined beyond repair. Greg and his friend would avoid one another, as the acid seeped into the fissures between them. Martin had only been mildly sorry that he wouldn't be around to watch.

But something else had happened, quite impossibly, while Martin was halfway around the world. Greg took the man _home._ Kept him like a pet. Why?

Martin picks up his pad and pen from the night table, and idly begins to doodle. He makes a rectangle that becomes a lopsided shape -- a brick. 

He tears off that page and begins again, drawing a face with high cheekbones and a gently curved mouth. Can he recall what that nose looked like before being shattered? He thinks he can. There was an oddly elegant slope about it, like _so._ James Wilson had been quite attractive, really. Perhaps the two of them were -- no. He rejects the thought the instant it forms. Sex is sex; Greg could get that anywhere. Sex wouldn't be enough to explain Greg's plea. _Don't kill him. Martin, don't kill him._

Nor would sex explain why Doctor Wilson failed to learn the lesson Martin offered. What insane folly would cause him to place himself _literally_ in Greg's hands? Wilson knew perfectly well that everything that had happened to him was Greg's fault. The doctor ought to hate his "friend" for that and instead there he was, walking back from the park --

Two tiny silhouettes flow from Martin's pen, the slightly shorter one leaning its right shoulder against the left shoulder of the taller figure. Why? Had the doctor gone hypoxic after they left him in the alley? Had his brain been damaged so that he did not recall what Greg had done to him? No, that couldn't be the case. Martin would have learned about that during his insurance inquiries.

Martin sighs, and draws a long, narrow cylinder beneath his sketch of the doctor. To one end he adds a flange and a plunger, drawn back. To the other end he attaches a needle, large-bore. 

Anything could go in there. Push the drugs in, pull the truth out. The mechanics are simple enough.

The only trouble is that stance, the way Greg stood guard over the man. Perhaps Martin should have heard it from the start: _Don't do this. Not to him._

All it meant to Martin at the time was that he had chosen his target well, as he always did. 

Combine that with a hospital bed in Greg's own apartment, and it means something else entirely, but what? What power does Wilson have over him? Has Greg done something particularly naughty, something only the good doctor knows about?

_No, no,_ he chides himself. _Don't be obtuse._ If it were blackmail, Greg would have let Wilson die rather than paying such a hefty price for him. Martin looks at the sketched face again and decides to make the hair a little longer, brows a little heavier, eyes a little darker.

The Weather Channel is right back to the story they were running when Martin tuned in, meaning that he has missed the eastern forecast. Once more he will have to wait while they obsess about the hurricane. He forces his attention away from the pad of paper, determined to regain the focus that this puzzle has stolen from him. Most problems are so simple for him, but this one -- there's something he's missing. Without meaning to, he looks again at the drawing he's just made.

Doctor Wilson seems to mock him, looking up from the page, his intelligent eyes yielding none of the answers Martin wants. 

"Oh, my dear Wilson," Martin sighs, "what is it you see?"


	66. Aftershocks 28.1: Fresh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a goddamned pregnant woman, with his cravings ...

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Like a goddamned pregnant woman with his cravings...  
 **CHARACTERS:** House  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

**Fresh**

 

This morning, Wilson had threatened to quit even his limited cooking if House didn't come home from work with fresh mango for his smoothies. "Worse than a goddamned pregnant woman with his cravings," House mutters as he drops the three best-looking mangoes into a bag.

He is shouldered, hard, by someone as he makes his way to the checkout counter, and he nearly loses his mangoes and his balance. His reflexive, "Hey! Cripple here!" dies on his lips as he half-turns and sees the back of the man who bumped him. The close-cropped hair and broad shoulders are unmistakable. This time House _does_ drop the mangoes.

A six-year-old breaks away from his father and helps House gather his groceries. House wills his hands to stop shaking as he puts everything on the conveyor, and he resists the urge to scan the store. He _won't_ give the son of a bitch the satisfaction.

When he reaches for his wallet, he feels an unfamiliar crinkle in his jacket pocket. He pulls out a folded piece of paper while the clerk retrieves his change.

It's a photocopy of a page from an appointment book. Dr. Tomlinson's appointment book, scheduling her surgeries in orthopedics. Wilson's next surgery for the crushed left hand is highlighted in cheerful pink.

House crumples the sheet into a ball and stuffs it back into his pocket. He glances quickly around the store, silently takes his change and grocery bag, and hobbles as fast as he can for the exit, ignoring the sudden sweat beading on his lower back.  
   



	67. Aftershocks 28.2: Mangoes

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Would someone please explain ...? **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**  
Mangoes**   


"Extra protein for your shake, Jimmy?" House snipes as he washes his blood off the half-peeled mango and then runs water over his cut forefinger. Wilson blinks silently at the red spirals that slip down the drain.  
  
"Don't just stand there gawping, be _useful_. You want your damn smoothie, bring me the kit. That juice stings like a bitch." He's letting the blood drip into the sink, waiting.  
  
The first aid box is in a convenient spot on the table near Wilson's bed. All his antibiotics and pain meds live in that box, so it's pretty crowded. He takes it carefully into the kitchen. House throws it onto the counter, rifles through it angrily and rips open a sterile gauze pad. He tries to tape that in place, but it's his right hand that's cut and he's having trouble unrolling the tape with only his left. He looks like he's ready to throw the tape and the knife and the offending mango against the wall. He snarls at Wilson's offer of help and proceeds to use his teeth to hold the end of the tape. Soon he manages a bandage that's functional, if sloppy, but he stands there leaning on the counter, staring sullenly downward instead of resuming the task at hand.  
  
He has been behaving weirdly ever since he arrived with the mangoes, about an hour ago. The first hint had been the speed with which he'd shot through the door, yelling for Wilson. He had looked as if he thought the building was on fire. This is at least the second time he's seen that expression on House, in the last week or so, and it's getting worrying.  
  
House hadn't been able to disguise the physical release, the tension falling from his shoulders when he spotted Wilson peering at him from the shadows of the hall. The signs of panic haven't returned, but House has been unusually snappy and he's barely been able to sit still. And now this. House has excellent dexterity. If he slices open his finger, it's not a matter of clumsiness. He's either in a lot of physical pain, or something else is very wrong; and it isn't pain. He hasn't taken any pills since he got home.  
  
"Willya jus' tell me what th'problm is?" Wilson's too frustrated to work at enunciation. "An' I don' wanna hear 's'fine. Not. Even you're not's much of a jerk."  
  
"You do know I can't _save_ you," retorts House, bitterly. He's not looking up from the counter top.  
  
Wilson's gaze travels quickly over House's face, and there's more information there than House probably means to give away.  
  
"From?" he asks, although he's pretty sure he already knows.  
  
"Anyone, you moron. Not when it counts; I can't save anyone. That's why I don't try. I never could -- I can't, and I hope you don't expect me to."  
  
"Scarin' me now, House. S'riously." He puts his one good hand on his hip and tries to stare House down, but House still won't look at him. "Th' hell's gon' on? _Tell me_." He forces those words out very clearly, while fear winds like a cold snake around his ankles.  
  
"Nothing," sighs House, quietly. "I just get -- it's nothing. You know I'm an ass." He rubs his forehead, looks up at Wilson, and the anger seems to have gone. He simply looks exhausted. He pushes himself away from the countertop and beckons with his hand. "Your strap's coming loose. C'mere."  
  
He steps forward and House deftly begins to re-thread the sliding buckles of the sling. It isn't really necessary, but Wilson knows that's not the point. House's hand on his right shoulder, 'steadying' him, that's the point. He can feel a tremor in that hand, but he pretends that he doesn't notice. Instead, he files that information in a sheaf of mental notes he's been keeping, knowing that eventually he's going to make some sense of all this. And he's probably not going to like it -- but he'll deal with that then.  



	68. Aftershocks 29.1: Let's Make a Deal

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** The only way to give anything to House is to make him think he's stealing it. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Cuddy, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Let's Make a Deal**

 

"What now, House?" she sighs as she hears her office door swing open.

"Is that the way you greet your favorite department head?"

"No. That would be, 'What can I do for you, Doctor Wilson?'  You're not even my second favorite. At present you're in a dead heat with the head of Janitorial."

"Liar. You'd never have paid a hundred million for the Tidy Bowl Man."

"This hospital's _independence_ was worth a hundred million. You were just a dubious perk."

"I'm good at being dubious, but perky? You wouldn't know about that unless you had -- _ohhh_ , that's right, you _did_ sleep with me!"

"And I out-perked you by a two-to-one margin. So," she purrs, offering her most cunning smile, "are you headed for the clinic all by yourself, or do I have to have the nice men in uniform show you the way?"

"You wouldn't."

"This is the fourth time in two hours you've interrupted my work. Care to bet?"

House shuts his mouth but does not turn to go. He leans on his cane at a slightly odd angle, and Cuddy notes that his right hand is bandaged.  She decides not to ask what happened because first of all, she probably does not want to know and second, he will use the question to divert her from ... well, who knows from what.  He stands there and stares at her -- not the leering stare of a moment ago, but the troubled, guarded one that makes her think of ghosts, of half-formed figures moving behind a pane of glass. 

"You want something. Just tell me what it is, so I can say no and we can get it over with." What she means is, _Tell me what you need and I'll do my best to help_. Life would be so much easier if she could just offer and he could just accept, but that's not how it works with him. She has long since learned that the only way to give anything to House is to make him think he's stealing it.

"I want you to --"  He looks away, down at his hands, and then at the door. "You should go see Wilson."

"Is he doing all right?"

"If by 'doing all right' you mean 'being a constant pain in my ass', sure. He's demanding, whiny, always hungry, and I'm sick of it. You agree to come over for an evening, do your maternal nurturing thing, and I'll ... leave you alone for the rest of the day."

"If by 'leave me alone' you mean you'll go to the Clinic ..."

"Fine." He's caving far too quickly, but she's not going to call him on it, not going to tell him that she knows damn well he isn't sick of Wilson. "Sadist," he growls at her. "I just thought you might want to go play mommy for a while, since Wilson's real mommy doesn't love him anymore."

"You mean his family --?"

"AWOL. Or MIA, or whatever set of letters mean 'uncaring selfish hypocrites' these days."

"They're still on that cruise?"

"The Rhine must have frozen over," House mutters, and then he's gone as suddenly as he appeared. He must be distracted; he never even waited for her answer. She picks up her pager and sends him a quick message: _tonight 6._

Cuddy stares down at the calendar on her desk, but instead of dates she sees Wilson in his hospital bed, surrounded by cards, flowers, pastel trinkets and no people. His isolation had bothered her then, but she never thought House cared about that. He had always seemed to like having Wilson all to himself.

_Maybe he's just careful who he shares with_ , she thinks, feeling a sad little smile tug at her mouth. She wonders what she should bring when she visits, and decides that she'll have to ask House. No one else would know as well as he would, and she can't ask Wilson himself. Hard as it is to give anything to House, with Wilson it's almost impossible. House at least will admit that there are things he wants.

She's jarred out of her thoughts by the ringing of her phone. It's the line from the Clinic's admitting desk.

"Yes?"

"Six is good," says House. "Wear something sexy." He hangs up before she can say anything, and she hates herself for immediately thinking of that red silk tank she hasn't pulled out of the closet in ages.

Well, what the hell. The color makes her feel happy, and maybe James will like it. He's got to be tired of looking at wrinkles and stubble.  
   



	69. Aftershocks 29.2: Defense

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** He'll use whatever strategies he can. **  
****CHARACTERS:** House **  
**RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

  
**Defense**

 

He sits in his car -- the ratty old one that smells of many things, none of which are vomit -- and hopes that what he's doing is not as rotten as he fears it is. If Cuddy knew, she'd pull off one of her stiletto heels and ram it through his heart. He wouldn't even blame her.

It isn't fair to her. It's dangerous, but it's the best chance he has of keeping the devil at bay. The more company, the more people coming and going from the apartment, the less likely that Martin will choose to drop in. He's a psycho, but he's a smart and careful psycho; hell, he's a genius. House's head throbs as he turns the key in the ignition, listening to the engine grudgingly agree to start.

_Smarter than me. He always was one step ahead, always_. That gap might have been narrowed in the years since they were kids, but the trouble is that Martin's as expert a criminal as House is a physician. There's the matter of practice, of acquired skills and learned patterns.  Martin has decades of training in his chosen field. He is, above all else, a professional. That's the one thing that might stop him from killing Wilson just to see the look on House's face. It's also the thing that will make him hesitant to get other witnesses involved.

His stomach aches at the thought of Cuddy ever having to meet Martin under _any_ circumstances. Yet House has put her in a position where that's possible; she could come to Martin's attention. It's not what House wants, but even if it happens, she'll probably be safe. Instinctively House knows that Martin won't go after her. He has already found House's weak spot and he'll stay focused on it -- on Wilson -- until he loses interest or is called away on business. 

Martin's never been the sort who hurts girls for kicks, anyway.  Left to his own devices, he prefers to target men. It's not chivalry; it's simply that the male of the species is larger, stronger prey, a bigger trophy. More fun to destroy.

House wishes, with every ounce of hatred in his soul, that he could turn the rifle scope around and put the hunter in the crosshairs. He wishes, for all the good that does him, that he were detached, that he could look at Martin Grey and not see the string of defeats. He could fight back if he couldn't recall the fear, the damage, the long summer afternoons when no one else paid him any mind and Martin was there for him. Always there, always a step ahead. _If I had any sense, I'd go get Wilson's gun,_ he thinks, for about the thousandth time.

For the thousandth time his own mind answers, _Yeah. And if you give it to Wilson and he has another bad flashback? He won't be just holding your wrist this time, he'll be pointing a gun at your face._

I'll keep it. Put it in my nightstand drawer.

_Where it won't do you any good when Martin breaks in in the middle of the night and kills Wilson before you can get it out._

So Wilson _does_ need it. Post-traumatic bullshit or not.

The little voice in his head snorts.

_It would take Martin about two seconds to take it away from him. Disarming an injured man who's only got one good hand? Candy from a fucking baby._ And then?

_He'd kill Wilson with it._

House lays his forehead against the steering wheel and closes his eyes. His brain is telling him to go, to get home, but still the scenario plays out inexorably in his mind.

_Wilson, murdered in his bed. Martin, turning to House, that relentless **curiosity** in his eyes._

And then he'd kill me.

_No._

He'd put the gun in my hand. Wait to see what I'd do.

_And what **would** you do, Greg?_

"No," House murmurs softly. "Get out of my head." He straightens suddenly, and smacks hard at the top of the steering wheel. _"Get out of my fucking head!"_ he shouts.

_Maybe it's you that needs that psych card, not Wilson._

"Go to hell," he tells himself, and hits the gas pedal hard on his way out of the garage.


	70. Aftershocks 29.3: A Mother's Love

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Honor thy father and thy mother ...  
**CHARACTERS:** Wilson and House, with a small side dish of Cuddy.  
**RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**A Mother's Love**

 

The expression on House's face tells him everything he needs to know.

Wilson drops his head back against the pillow and closes his eyes. Of course she'd call now. Now, when he and House have been circling each other like giant wary dogs for almost a week, prickly and stand-offish. It's like the air is full of static electricity and there's a storm brewing, but House won't talk about it and Wilson's afraid to ask.

He listens for a moment. Maybe if he pretends to be asleep ... but that probably won't work, seeing as how he was wide awake a minute ago, sniping at House for putting _Raging Bull_ in the DVD player. It's a movie Wilson used to like -- he's always been an admirer of Scorsese's artistry, but he'd found it difficult to watch Robert De Niro getting the crap beaten out of him, and it had been a relief when the phone rang.

For about a minute.

House is using his Grown-Up Voice, the ultra-polite one that masks his desire to insult, maim, or otherwise destroy the person on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, he's right here," House says. "I'll put him on _right now_ and you can ask him yourself."

Wilson glares at him, but House is already holding the phone out with nothing but innocence written all over his face. Bastard.

 _Might as well get this over with,_ Wilson thinks, and takes the phone.

"Hi, Mom," he says.

His mother twitters in his ear.

"Yes, I know you and Dad had this Rhine cruise plan' for months now. No, I know you had to fly direc'ly back to Flor'da." He does his best to ignore House, who has thrown up his right arm in a Nazi salute and is whistling something that sounds suspiciously like "Springtime for Hitler" under his breath.

"'Bout four weeks," Wilson says. "Wit' House. Greg House. You 'member -- "

_" ... and GER-MANNNNYYYYY!"_

Wilson desperately wants to put his hand over his eyes, but his left hand is useless and his right hand is occupied in holding the phone to his ear. His jaws are already aching from the effort to enunciate clearly.

"No, Mom. House has the ... um ... TV turned up real'y loud. He's a big fan of mus'cals." He smirks triumphantly at House, who rolls his eyes and looks away.

His mother twitters again. She sounds worried.

"It was a gang of kids, mom. Yeah. Um ... five or six, I don' really 'member. No, I -- what? No, mom, they were a gang. I din't know any -- " Out of the corner of his eye he can see House pretending not to listen.

"Um ... hurt ribs, m'jaw -- yeah. That's why. Smoothies. Mom, look ... how's Dad?"

House leans forward on the sofa and rests his elbows on his knees. It looks to Wilson like he's rubbing at his forehead.

"Really? Soun's like a good project. No, I un'erstan' he can't get away."

He watches as House lunges to his feet and heads into the kitchen. The metallic clatters and bangs that follow tell him House is assaulting the silverware.

"No, Mom, I'm fine. Really. House's ... House's takin' good care a'me."

In the kitchen, something crashes to the floor. It's not loud enough to be House, so Wilson ignores it.

"An' Jon? Oh. So you haven't talked t'him. Okay. No, I know you're busy."

Utter silence from the kitchen, and Wilson tries to twist around and make sure House isn't preparing to stab himself with one of the butcher-block knives or set himself on fire with the toaster oven.

The doorbell rings.

"That should be our guest," House shouts. "Tell _Mommy Dearest_ you gotta go!"

Wilson exhales slowly. "Mom," he says. "Somebody at th'door. Talk to you later, 'kay? 'Kay. Bye, Mom. Love you too. Bye."

"And be sure and check the peephole!"

"'M not a _complete_ id'yot, House," Wilson mutters as he maneuvers slowly off the bed. He's completely exhausted, despite the shortness of the call. House is still yelling, ranting about Wilson's mother, but Wilson tunes him out. He's heard plenty from House on this subject before. He starts to tug at the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it into some semblance of smoothness, then catches himself and stops. 

_It's just Chase,_ he thinks. Although House hadn't actually _told_ him who was dropping by, who else could it be?

He's therefore taken by complete surprise when he peeks through the tiny fisheye and sees Cuddy grinning back at him.

"Crap," Wilson mumbles. He quickly tucks the rest of his t-shirt into the waist of his sweatpants and swipes his right hand through his hair.

 _Damn it, House, why don't you tell me anything?_

Unfortunately, he opens the door just as House is finishing up his rant.

" -- all the maternal instincts of a _dingo!"_

Wilson feels the blood rush to his face, but Cuddy just laughs.

"I picked up a few things on the way over," she says, holding up a large white bag. The delicious scent of spicy chicken broth fills the doorway, and Wilson's mouth immediately begins to water. She leans closer, her tone low and conspiratorial. "C'mon. Let's go tell him Meryl Streep is here."

 


	71. Aftershocks 30.1: The Evening News

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** House tells him everything he wants to know. **  
****CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House. **  
**RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

  
**The Evening News  
**

The sky is gently darkening as they roll through town. A soft breeze carries the smells of car exhaust, restaurants, cut grass and cooling concrete. It's familiar, comforting. The food scents would probably make him insane, had Cuddy not shown up last night with a quart each of egg drop, hot-and-sour, and miso soup. It all proved blendable and delicious, each variety a blessed reprieve from his culinary hell.

Cuddy herself had been a feast for the senses: red silk, perfume that hinted of orchids and fresh water, and a lilting cadence as she'd chatted and laughed. He'd forgotten about that, just how pleasant she really could be, until last night. It wasn't that he wanted to do anything about it, but it was nice to have someone around who wasn't all hard edges, leather and sarcasm.

He takes off his Stealth Hat (that's what House calls it) and lets his hair get mussed in the wind. Wilson loves the Corvette, even as a passenger. In the city, though, House drives like a grandmother, because the other drivers are morons who might hurt his precious car. It's frustrating and funny to watch House, the very spirit of recklessness, doing a measly forty miles per hour down the strip.

Wilson leans back, content to relax and listen while House -- who seems more cheerful than he's been for several days now -- rambles on.

"We had a winner today," he says, and Wilson knows that he's talking about the Clinic Prize, which is their own personal version of the Darwin Awards.  "Middle manager. Some bank or other. Tripped on her own pointy heels and crashed right into a _wall_ ," he crows, and looks over as if to see whether Wilson's amused.  He is. "The _best part_ is that it happened at a conference, during a blindfolded 'trust building exercise'."

It still hurts to laugh, but Wilson chuckles, and House continues. "The nasal fracture was a shame, because it ruined a perfectly good rhinoplasty. Bled all over her fake boobs. I ... might have said something insensitive."

Wilson raises his eyebrows in silent mockery, _No! Not **you**?_

"Something about her life being saved by her front-impact airbags."

Wilson sputters and then, because he's trying not to, he starts laughing in earnest. That causes his abdominals to flutter and spasm. He leans forward, making the hand sign for _Stop it before you kill me_. At least House has the decency to let him recover before resuming the daily report.

This is way more fun than the news Wilson gets when he goes in for his medical appointments. Cameron has to find him; Cuddy has to find him; everyone wants to say hello. They tell nice, cheery stories of the good things that are happening while he's away. Wilson nods and pretends he cares, which he will eventually, but right now? He does not. It's so much easier just to be around House, who knows him better than that. House brings the _dirt_.

"Remember Evans, in the lab? _So_ fired. Turns out," House says, "it's against the rules to smoke pot in the morgue. Who knew? And what kind of idiot brings _weed_ to a hospital, anyway?" He smirks at Wilson, who offers a one-shouldered shrug.

"I din't inhale," he says. "Can't say 'bout m'patients, though."

"You never got _me_ any of the good stuff, Doctor Jimmy."

" _You_ never got cancer, y'lying bastard."

"At least I'm not inbred, like our mutant lawyer friend. _Ooooohhhh_ , you haven't _heard_ , have you?" House is glowing with a wicked joy. "He's _engaged!_ " Wilson's eyes widen. If his jaw weren't wired it would fall wide open.

"Kidding. Yer _kidding_. To his -- uh --"

"To his lovely Christine, formerly Christopher."

" _Guuuuuuuuh!_ "

House enjoys this so much. He makes twisty faces, spewing lewd remarks about the uses of the lawyer's mutant sixth finger, while Wilson tries not to hurt himself laughing. As they coast to a halt at an intersection, House falls silent like a radio that's been switched off. Wilson blinks at him in mild confusion. In the dusky, fading light, it's hard to tell, but he thinks House just went pale.

"You okay?"

"Peachy," says House, and shifts his gaze away from the other cars, onto the road ahead of them. "Let's go."

The light turns green and House abandons all caution. He hits the gas, shifts gears so fast that it makes Wilson's body ache, and speeds wildly for the freeway.


	72. Aftershocks 30.2: The Value of Things

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** A couple of rounds with insomnia.  **  
****CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**The Value of Things**

****  
Martin causes nightmares every time he shows up, but it's never been this bad before. Not even when House was a kid, after he had learned firsthand that this, his supposed best friend, had a fathomless, lightless abyss where he should've had a soul.

House doesn't even remember the dream. All he knows is that he wakes with a violent start, sick with anger and fear. It's no stretch to imagine what must've happened.

As if that weren't enough, it feels like someone's tightening a tourniquet around his leg. He's going to lose a couple hours' sleep, but that's just as well. If he drifted off now, the nightmare would reclaim him. His pills are on the nightstand; he takes two. He'd like to wait for the constricting pain to ease from his thigh before he moves.

He's not going to wait, though. He's going to make sure Wilson's okay.

It's stupid and paranoid, but it's how he is now. He can either check on Wilson, or allow his own imagination to twist him into knots until morning. Martin's still out there, way too close, and if he wants to come in, he'll find a way.

There's a weight in House's chest, a lead blanket on his shoulders, that won't lift until he makes certain. No point fighting it; he's tried before. He only hopes Wilson won't catch him.

House makes his way softly into the living room, his body sharply protesting every step. It's dark, but he can see quite well in the diffuse yellow light that comes from above the kitchen range. The first wave of relief comes when he gets close enough to see that Wilson's breathing, the slow, shallow breaths of deep sleep. He appears to be fine, but House saw Martin out for an evening stroll earlier, while they were driving.  The nightmare, whatever it was, is still hanging on in the back of his mind, in the inside of his ribs.  He has to _know_.

Moving closer, he slides two fingers carefully beneath Wilson's wrist, feeling a steady pulse and no sign of fever. The last of the terror dissolves quietly away. Still, the pills haven't kicked in yet, and he's awake now whether he wants to be or not. He settles on the sofa to wait it out.

Waiting is boring. He can't turn on the TV without waking Wilson, whose concern for him will piss him off. So he watches Wilson instead.

That's not as dull as one would think; he never has been able to figure out what goes on in the labyrinthine depths of Wilson's brain. It's interesting to study him in what may be his only truly unguarded state. When Wilson sleeps he looks like he's twelve. Of course, lately he looks like he's twelve and the victim of child abuse.

There've been moments in the waking world when House has seen Wilson with all his shields down, but those have never lasted long -- partly because House couldn't help firing shots at him. Wilson's a lying, slippery, shifty little bastard; House has rarely let himself forget that. There was never any reason to let him show his soft belly, thinking that he could get any sympathy or care. It didn't work that way, and as long as Wilson knew that, he was less likely to get disappointed. And if or when he went away, it would hurt less. That was House's theory, for all those years.

Martin shot that theory all to hell. Martin, with his unerring instinct for doing the greatest possible harm, had looked at House's life and chosen to take Wilson. While House had been pretending to himself that Wilson wasn't as important as all that, Martin had known better. He always did have a flawless sense of the value of things.

It's anyone's guess as to how he figured it out. Perhaps he visited the hospital, proposing to make a donation, and all the while charming the staff.

_Oh yes, I met one of your doctors at the benefit last fall. House, it was, and his friend -- ?_

To which the oblivious moron in question would surely have replied, _Friend? Of **House?** That had to be Doctor Wilson._

He imagines Martin talking to Cuddy, watching the lively warmth that dances in her eyes, the genuine smile when she says Wilson's name. Dooming Jimmy with her gentle pride, her praise.

But there's no way to know if that's what happened, and it doesn't matter. He didn't know and couldn't prevent it, so this is reality: Wilson is here, his jaw still wired shut, his misshapen nose awaiting surgery to make it resemble itself again. Wilson is here. He's got seven tiny plates and twenty-nine screws holding his left hand together. And he's asleep. _Here_.  
  
 _How long will this last?_ House wonders. Not how long before Wilson moves out, but how long before he leaves New Jersey and leaves no forwarding address. Wilson keeps so many secrets, hides things so well. He might already be making plans.

Wilson's laptop computer rests on the bedside table, its sleek outline shining faintly in the shadows. Information Central, in the shape of a small metallic slab. If Wilson's been looking for another apartment, another job, the laptop will remember.  Unlike its owner, it will definitely tell him the truth.

 

* * *

The leg pain is easing, but he's as cautious as he'd be if it were very, very bad.  His goal, Wilson's laptop, is only a few yards away.  The trouble is that it's on the wrong side of the bed, at Wilson's left.  House will have to navigate around the room in order to unplug the thing and remove it without being caught.

He stops in mid-sneak, just past the coffee table, because he notices that Wilson is in REM sleep, his eyes darting back and forth beneath the lids. It seems peaceful at first, but then his breaths lose their steady rhythm and his hand begins to twitch. A low-pitched noise issues from his throat, followed by a series of thick, indistinct syllables that all sound like _No_.

House backtracks quickly, grabs the remote, turns on the TV and raises the volume. At full blast it finally breaks through Wilson's dream; Wilson jolts and bolts upright, panting.  He's obviously in pain; he moans, clutching at his back, scrunching the t-shirt fabric in his ineffectual right hand. His frightened, confused expression barely changes when he sees House watching him. House hits the _mute_ button.

"Stop freaking out. You're awake."

Wilson's calming down now, taking deep breaths through his teeth, rubbing his face with his hand. His brow's all scrunched up, either from the pain or from the nightmare. There's only one of those two things that House can help with.

"How bad is it?" he asks.

"Bad."

House turns toward the kitchen, intending to go mix an oxycodone cocktail.

"No." Wilson stops him. "Not that. Wha's bad is -- this. Almos' every night now. Like bein' a damn kid. Dreams. A _night light_ , f'God's sake." He's looking at the silent television, not at House, but this is one of _those_ times. All Wilson's barricades are down. He's out in the open where anything, anyone, could wreck him. House isn't even tempted. He leans hard on his cane and wonders what to do about this.

"You know you won't get whatever it is you want from me," he growls, and he's surprised at Wilson's low, knowing little laugh. " _What._ "  It's a demand, more than a question.

"Look where I am." Wilson's glancing around the apartment. "Never seen you do anythin' like this," he says, turning his head to look House in the eye. "Y'thought I wanted somethin' else?"

House stands there and stares, stunned at the implications. All he can think is, _It's enough?_ Of course he thought something else was wanted; something else was _always_ wanted. Wilson in particular was always --

"House." Wilson winces and once again runs his hand along his spine, which seems to have objected to the sudden way he sat up. "Drugs'd be good."

That request brings immediate relief, not to Wilson but to House. _This_ , he can do.

In the kitchen, he allows himself a little smile as he picks out a martini glass. He mixes Wilson's dose up in that; it seems appropriate. No plastic kiddie cup this time.

House can't help himself, though. When he approaches the bedside and Wilson reaches out, he pulls the glass away.

"You sure the pain isn't all in your head?"

Wilson's expression makes House _almost_ wish he hadn't said that. It may not even be fair anymore, since Wilson seems to have gotten over that particular delusion. House steps forward, hands over the drink, and sits down on the bed right beside him.

"You were up," Wilson muses. "You woke me."

"My leg hurts, you nitwit. You gonna take that stuff? 'Cause if not--"

"Hands off, jerk." He drinks, and it's almost like the drug affects House too. He's done something, done what he could. Wilson knows he's trying. At least for now, maybe it really is enough.


	73. Aftershocks 32.1: The Power of Suggestion

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Dancing to a tune he really hates.  
 **CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson, and OFC  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**The Power of Suggestion**

 

_Bastard,_ House thinks yet again as his fingers close around the folded paper in his jeans pocket. _You goddamn manipulative bastard._

He watches as Tomlinson bends low over Wilson's immobilized left hand, the magnifying goggles on her face making her look like some kind of giant, inquisitive insect. She murmurs a request to Patel, who gives her a shining steel instrument with hooks at the end that wouldn't look out of place in a medieval torture chamber, and goes back to work.

_Knew I wouldn't be able to stay away. Playing me like a fucking Stradivarius._

He'd had no intention of actually _observing_ this procedure, of pulling a scrub tunic over his t-shirt, allowing a nurse to tie a sterile mask over his face. All that had changed the moment his goddamn _stalker_ , the one who thinks this's such a fun _game_ , had slipped Tomlinson's OR schedule into his jacket at the grocery store. And of course _Wilson_ hadn't been expecting him to observe either, so he'd had to invent a quick story about seeing a write-up of a similar procedure in a back issue of the _Indian Journal of Medical Research_.

The operating room has that low-level hum of ambient noise that always accompanies non-emergency surgery; there's none of the controlled intensity of saving someone's life here, just the electronic stream of readouts and the usual muffled observations and small talk from behind cloth masks. This is a procedure that Tomlinson performs probably a dozen times a month -- removing some pins and plates, readjusting others, adding a screw here, cutting away the adhesions and scar tissue already developing around the damaged tendons and muscles. Completely routine. Except ...

Except Wilson is completely helpless. And while House knows Deborah Tomlinson, he's not so familiar with her Ortho surgical team. He allows his gaze to roam over each of them again.

Patel. Horowitz. Wade. Jacobsen. He knows them now; he's checked each of them out, looking for something, anything, that might have led Martin to them. Because this is _Martin_ , and Martin can _get to people._

He looks around again; there'd been a last-minute change this morning, a new guy from Princeton General named Gordon Pike. He'd already suited up by the time House had found him -- a tall, lanky guy with broad shoulders, and for just a moment House had thought ...

But he'd had brown eyes.

Wilson makes a low, breathy sound, and House's head snaps around, but it's nothing, nothing, and House swears at himself silently for being so damn paranoid. It's just that Wilson is _helpless_ , half-naked and motionless on the table, his left wrist strapped down, an IV line keeping him in deep twilight sleep while the surgeons go about their work. House had watched as the regional anesthetic and the Versed took effect, as Wilson's eyes went all glassy and his muscles loose and relaxed.

"Almost done, Dr. House," Tomlinson murmurs, and House stares at her. "I don't think we'll need too many more surgeries -- Dr. Wilson is healing very nicely, considering the amount of damage that was done." She cocks her head, blows out a tiny puff of air as she examines her work. "It's quite terrifying, if you think about it, what a boot tread can do to the metacarpals."

Pike glances up. "Hiking boot?"

"Most likely." Tomlinson straightens for a moment, holds a miniscule screw up to the light. "Picked a lot of gritty particulate and dirt out of the patient's hand the night he came in." She shakes her head. "Savage, savage children." 

_You don't know the half of it._


	74. Aftershocks 32.2: Off the Map

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** For some things there are no guidelines  
 **CHARACTERS:** Wilson  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**Off the Map**

 

Wilson's left hand aches.

It's not like it's much of a surprise -- since the afternoon Tweedledum held him down and Pugilist brought his boot heel crashing onto the back of his hand, smashing the small bones into tiny, fractured, fragments, Wilson's hand has hurt. The surgeries have been almost a relief, really -- the regional anesthetic and the twilight sleep combining to spirit him away from the pain, not just from his hand but from the memories and the daytime thoughts.

He'd found himself almost looking forward to Tomlinson cutting his hand open (again) this morning, and how weird is that?

Well, at least it puts him on par with House, who's also been acting ... weird ... lately. If Wilson really wants to think about it (which he doesn't) it's been since the new door was delivered. House has been ... _noodgy_ , as his mother would say, and isn't that a funny thought, that his mother is voicing her concern in his mind even though she never ...

He should really stop thinking about this.

Except he can't, because his hand _hurts_.

It hurts when he wakes up in the morning and when he goes to bed at night. It hurts when, no matter how careful he's trying to be, he bumps his broken collarbone and the pain radiates all the way down the ulnar nerve to his very fingertips. It hurts when he watches TV and inadvertently flexes his fingers, when he tries to touch his thumb and little finger together for his therapy exercises. Opposable thumbs. 

_It's what divides us from the animals._

Even with all the drugs he's taking, there's still a deep-down dry ache, as if his synovial joints need oiling like the Tin Man in _The Wizard of Oz_. "Oil can!" Jack Haley had squeaked, and all he had ever wanted was a heart and what was so wrong with that? Why had he been punished, when all he had done was forget one thing? One tiny little thing, and it had turned out to be the most important thing ever?

He already knows there's a good probability he'll eventually develop arthritis in that hand -- that it will burn and the knuckles will twist into cramped, twisted kinks, and it will hurt like hell every single time he has to sign his name.

Fall will be the worst, with the rain and damp.

He pictures himself reaching into a labcoat pocket with his right hand, retrieving an ever-present bottle of Vicodin.

A hand, a leg -- what's the difference?

One reaches for the map. One takes you on the journey.

They have to work together.

Or else you go nowhere.


	75. Aftershocks 33.1: Groundless

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
**SUMMARY:** Nothing happened.  
**CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson, OC  
**RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
**WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
**SPOILERS:** No.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
**NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

Nothing happened.

House keeps reminding himself of that: nothing happened during Wilson’s surgery, or the evening after. It’s _him_ that Martin wants to fuck with, not Wilson.

He reminds himself of that when Cuddy and Wilson bitch him out in stereo – telephone and live action – for not being at work at ten-thirty the morning after Wilson’s surgery. He reminds himself of that on the drive to work, and as his fellows try to talk to him about something or other (weekend plans or a patient, he can’t tell because he’s not listening), and during a quickly grabbed lunch.

He reminds himself of that as he spends the afternoon doing Clinic hours, because the banality of it all is almost mind-numbing enough to keep him from having to remind himself. He reminds himself of that during the three short phone calls and two emails to Wilson that he’s very carefully decided are acceptable without raising suspicion, and during his real-time over-the-phone narration of General Hospital, during which Wilson snorts and snickers and occasionally throws in a bon mot.

He reminds himself of that as his fellows try again to talk to him about something or other, and as Cuddy stops him in the lobby and gabbles about a topic he’s pretty sure – based solely on the way her eyes are tracking – that he’s been forced to suffer through a million times before.

He reminds himself of that on the drive home, and it _works_ , it really _does_ , all the way up until he pulls onto his street and sees the thing only half a block from his door.

The silver Jaguar.

There are goosebumps under his leather jacket, and he’s extraordinarily glad for his reflexes because that swerve should have dumped his ass on the pavement. As it is, a few yards later he narrowly avoids getting clipped as he’s cutting up onto the sidewalk. The blare of a car horn accompanies him as he hops – literally, _**fucking** leg_ – off the bike and moves faster than his racing heartbeat to his building's door. Fumbling, fumbling, where the _fuck_ are his keys? He ought to be calmer than this; there’s no way he’ll outwit Martin if he’s not calm, but damn, his keys are slippery, _oily_ bastards.

Finally he slams through the foyer, gets the thorny keys into his condo door, turns them the wrong way, and back again. Shoulder down and then thrust back up, a body-check worthy of his days on the lacrosse field. Speaking of which, he’s got his cane in both hands; he’s not above cross-checking in this case, and nobody would call it unnecessary roughness.

The door gives abruptly, and it’s only his good leg and those excellent reflexes that keep him upright, keep him from tumbling to the floor. A millisecond to steady himself and then his eyes are up, scanning; another millisecond and the scene is flash-frozen into his brain.

There’s a broad-shouldered gray suit, back to him, looming by the hospital bed, and Wilson’s hunched over so that House can’t see his face...

He tries to shout but a strangled, half-volume “No,” is all that leaves his mouth, as his leg buckles, forcing him to drop his cane and grab the couch. _Fucking useless, useless, told you I couldn’t keep you safe._

“What?” Wilson looks up. “You care ‘f I make quartr’ly estimated tax payments ’stead of ann’l?”

The guy in the gray suit – who’s just a _guy_ , a guy with sandy blond hair and a mustache never before seen outside of pornos – looks at House as if he’s crazy, and takes the sheaf of papers off Wilson’s lap.

Wilson looks at House as if he didn’t notice his stumbling entry, as if the panic wasn’t overt and palpable and threatening to suffocate them all, and is there any way that could be true? Apparently so, because the next thing Wilson does is make calm introductions. “House, this is Brad Lundstrom, my accountant. Brad, this is my friend Greg House.”

“The un-reimbursed business expense,” Brad murmurs, and House hates him. 


	76. Aftershocks 36.1: Detonation

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Truth hurts.  
 **CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson, Chase  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Detonation**

 

No interesting case means House gets home while it's still daylight. _Well, sorta_ , he thinks as he looks up at the twilight sky before heading into the building. He finally has the unlocking of the new lock and deadbolt down to an automatic sequence, and he makes sure to call for Wilson as he steps inside.

There's no response, not even the thump of a fist against a wall, and his heart speeds up just a little. "Wilson?" he calls again, louder, as he locks the door behind him and sets his helmet on the table.

He's turning to take off his jacket when he spots the paper lying on the floor by the front door. The pink paper. A fucking _Financial Times_ is tightly folded on his fucking floor.

"Oh, you sick _fuck_ ," House mutters under his breath, then he takes off for the kitchen. He can be fast when he needs to be, and all the while he's hoping, hell, _praying_ that Wilson's still in the apartment and that they're the _only_ ones in the apartment.

The kitchen is empty, the block of knives overturned on the counter. Back in the living room, the phone—handset, base, wires—is strewn over the floor. Each piece is intact but that doesn't mean it's a good sign. The couch and coffee table are shifted at odd angles, and the one good lamp has been tipped onto the couch cushions. House growls.

The hallway is longer than he remembers; the bathroom is empty, the bedroom door is closed. House takes a deep breath and shifts his grip on the cane, holding it like a club. Slowly, he pushes open the door.

The bedroom is cast in shadows, and House can't make out anything except the bulk of the bed. House breathes a grunt of almost-relief—if the sick bastard _were_ here, he'd have revealed himself by now.

"Wilson?" he calls again, and his heart races in the silence that greets him. Wilson had better be—

He becomes aware of a soft panting sound, and House looks down to see Wilson, sitting curled next to the doorway, his knees drawn up tight against his chest. The light from the hall glints off the large knife Wilson's holding in his good hand.

The grunt House had let out earlier is nothing compared to the way his body relaxes at the sight. He shifts until he's leaning back against the door and facing Wilson. He says, quietly, "The eleven-inch knife's overkill, don't you think? I'd've gone with the eight, myself."

Wilson's panting slows, just a little. He's staring resolutely at the bedpost across the room.

House leans harder against the door and the cane; he needs the brace against the weakness in his knees. "Doesn't really matter, I guess," he continues, working hard to keep his voice steady. "I'm just glad you didn't stick _me_ with that thing."

"Heard," Wilson half-whispers. His breathing is getting closer to normal, but the knife is still shaking and his eyes don't move. "Knew 't was you."

House is glad for the support of the door; he's surprised by how much he needed Wilson to still be _in there_. Only now he doesn't know what else to say. He silently curses psychiatry, psychology, and his own stubborn self. Had he not been so dismissive during his psych rotations, he might be able to handle this without making it worse. He briefly thinks of the card Cuddy gave him, on the end table next to Wilson's bed, but quickly banishes the thought. A third party right now would _definitely_ make it worse.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a slow sigh. Wilson mimics the action.

"So," House says after a moment.

One of Wilson's eyelids twitch, but that's all the response House gets.

"You want to put down the knife now?"

"No," Wilson replies, his knuckles flexing white as he tightens his grip on the handle.

House transfers his cane, rubs his palm on his jeans, and resumes his original position. "Okay, then how about unclenching _yourself_? You're not doing your ribs any favors."

Wilson blinks, slowly, like he's finally reconnecting with all his nerve endings. He tenses as if to try to move, but hisses in a breath and relaxes again almost immediately. With one arm strapped to his chest and the other occupied by the knife, he's got no way of helping himself unfold his knees. "Can't," he says miserably.

"Okay," House says quietly as he slowly lowers himself to the floor. "Okay, I'm going to help you, then." He keeps talking as he scoots himself closer. "We've got to straighten you out first. To do that, I'm going to have to pull on your ankles." He looks up; Wilson is finally looking at him from behind the knife blade. "Wilson?"

Wilson nods his head.

"Don't stab me," House mutters as he wraps one hand around Wilson's ankle and rests the other on his knee. Wilson's body tenses under his fingers, then shudders and relaxes. Gingerly, House straightens first one leg, then the other. He looks up to find Wilson watching him intently.

He rubs his face with one hand. "I don't think I can help you off this floor if you don't put the knife down," he admits. When Wilson glances away, he says quickly, "But we can stay here until you're ready. Okay?"

Wilson looks back.

"Comfortable?" House asks.

Wilson nods, once. House scoots back until he's once again leaning against the door.

It's fully dark outside before Wilson finally speaks. "He was here."

Again House wishes that he had some idea of what the hell he was doing, some idea about how to fix the unfixable. "I saw," he replies quietly. "He didn't—"

"No," Wilson cuts him off. "The door never opened." His fingers flex around the knife handle again.

House really wants to grab Wilson by the shoulders and pepper him with questions. But that _would_ get him stabbed, so he keeps quiet.

"I wen' to the kitchen. I was gonna make sm 'mato soup. I wandid oo take a nap 'fore you got home." Wilson's words are quiet and coming fast; House has to strain to understand him. "I was sittin' on the bed when the paper came through the mail slot." He starts to shake again.

"Jesus," House mutters and scrubs at his face with both hands. "Fuck."

"That fucking pink paper," Wilson whispers. He sits for a moment, then his breath hitches. "Wait. You saw  _what_?"

House twitches, looking up to see Wilson staring at him intently. "I...saw the...on the floor. The paper."

"But you knew what it meant. You were panicked."

House shifts uncomfortably, reluctant to look at Wilson.

"You've been acting weird, even for you. What aren't you telling me?" For the first time in weeks, Wilson looks like his entire focus is on something other than himself. House is not particularly happy that Wilson's new focus is on _him_.

"I never told you about the paper," Wilson says harshly.

"He always reads that paper," House replies quickly. He's busy studying the drapes on the other side of the room, so he startles when Wilson sends the knife skidding across the floor under his bed. Somehow Wilson has managed to regain his feet by the time House stands up, and House barely has his cane under him when Wilson steps up close, forcing him back against the door. Wilson is so close House can't look away; maybe that's his intention.

"When he was _nineteen_?" Wilson whispers. House can almost _see_ the gears turning, wishes for a moment that Wilson wasn't as smart as he was. "You're a fucking liar. He _showed_ you. You saw him. You knew he wasn't gone."

House swallows, hard. "Yeah," he croaks.

"How long?"

House could lie, but standing this close, Wilson would see it. Wilson can see him contemplating it even now and shoves his shoulder into the door.

"How long?"

"Almost two weeks," House barely whispers, and Wilson's eyes widen. "I just...see him. He makes himself seen. On the street, in the grocery store. He wanted me to know he's still in town."

Wilson steps back. "And you never though' to tell me." He sounds quiet, almost crushed.

"What was I going to say?" House says loudly. "Hey, Wilson, that sadistic bastard who fucked us both over hasn't left town yet? You're getting better; you didn't need to know."

"Yeah, much better to find out this way." Wilson shoulders past House and starts painfully down the hall.

House follows; he's not _done_ yet. "Wilson, this is what he does. He shows up, he fucks with me for a while, he leaves. I didn't think he'd involve you."

"You see where that kind of thinking has gotten us." Wilson's standing near the hospital bed, his good hand on the pillow, his back to House.

House knows better than to touch him. "The only way to get through it is to keep our heads down and not panic. Eventually he'll go away."

Wilson turns to face House, slowly, and shakes his head. His eyes are wide, incredulous. He gurgles harshly in his chest; it takes House a beat to realize Wilson is _laughing_. Almost hysterically, definitely painfully, but laughing nonetheless. "Tha's _great_ , House. We won' _panic_."

"It's a game to him. He gets off on it, on fu—"

His words are smashed, along with his lips, back into his teeth as Wilson's fist connects solidly with his face.

He staggers backward, prevented from falling only by the corner of the hallway wall jamming painfully between his shoulderblades. For a moment, he leans against the wall and watches Wilson, standing with his right hand still clenched in a fist, his eyes flat and dark and narrow. Wilson isn't laughing now.

House brings his free hand to his face, glances down at the blood slicked across his fingertips. "Jesus, Wilson," he whispers through swelling lips.

Wilson's face is emotionless now, made more mask-like by the odd way his lips stretch over the wires. "Call Chase," he says. "And get out."

House makes no move as Wilson brushes past him. He listens to Wilson's painful steps down the hallway and the _snick_ of the bathroom door closing. He wants to shout, to growl, to break open the door and make sure Wilson's okay, make him listen to reason. Instead he looks back down at his bloody fingers and breathes, "Fuck."

 

* * *

House manages to get mostly cleaned up while waiting for Chase to arrive. He can feel his face swelling, but he's stopped bleeding and in the dim light of the living room it's not too obvious. The sound of the shower effectively stops House from attempting to open the bathroom door, so he hangs a change of clothes on the knob. He comes back to the desk, where Wilson's luggage lays open, keeping his things in easy reach. Even with one hand, Wilson has somehow managed to keep his t-shirts folded. House glances around the living room, cataloging Wilson's other belongings. It won't take long for Chase to pack Wilson up.

Chase looks almost surprised by the speed with which House answers his knock. He glances at House's face, down at the bloody spot on his shirt, then looks over House's shoulder into the apartment. "Hey," he mutters. He doesn't look entirely happy about being called into service.

House isn't exactly happy about having to call him, either. He scowls and steps back to let Chase in.

"So, same orders as before?" Chase asks with forced lightness as he pulls his bag over his shoulder and turns back to House, who hasn't closed the door. "Fetch and carry, entertain and amuse?"

House points down the hallway. "He's in the shower. Make sure he's okay, give him his meds, feed him. Make sure he sleeps. You can sleep on the couch." He tucks a wad of cash in Chase's shirt pocket. "Wilson's your master now; do whatever he asks. But don't even _think_ about leaving him alone. And don't open the door, for anyone, for any reason. Not even wet and naked Carmen Electra." He glares until Chase nods his understanding. "Lock the door behind me."

With that, House turns, grabs his helmet from the side table, and leaves.  
   


  


	77. Aftershocks 36.2: Counting Flowers on the Wall

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Just one more thing that wasn't in Chase's job description. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Chase, Wilson **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

  
**Counting Flowers on the Wall**

 

 

Wilson's been playing solitaire for three hours now, blankly staring at his laptop, moving his fingers, flipping the digital cards. His eyes are red and he's slouching as if he's worn out or in pain, but he seems not to want to sleep. Or talk. Or eat, which is ... probably to be expected, under the circumstances.

Not that Chase knows what, exactly, the circumstances are. He knows -- based purely upon physical evidence -- that Wilson punched House, but not why. He knows that House left, with what looked like a travel bag slung over his shoulder.  He doesn't know where House went or how long he'll be gone.

He doesn't know why Wilson won't talk and is instead staring with dead eyes at the computer screen. Solitaire. How appropriate.

 

* * *

"I need drugs."

"What?" It's not that Chase didn't hear him; it's just that it's the first thing Wilson's actually said to him in what feels like years. 

"Hurt m'self." He closes -- almost slams -- the laptop computer. "If 'm gonna sleep, I need oxy. Seven mil'grams."

Chase is going to remember this and he's going to tell House, just in case. Seven milligrams is a lot. Either Wilson really is in that much pain, or this has to do with whatever _else_ is going on, and there's no way Chase is going to ask Wilson about that. The man's already hit House; Chase would prefer not to be next in line.

 

* * *

He brings the cup of ginger ale and lets Wilson measure the dose himself. It's closer to eight than seven, but Chase says nothing. He settles on the sofa, pretending to read that horrible book he brought with him. As soon as he leaves this place, he's going to throw it out; millions of happy readers can, in fact, all be wrong.

"Sorry," breathes Wilson, just before raising the cup to his lips.

"For ... being a jerk tonight, I presume?"

Wilson finishes his drink before he answers, "Yeah."

"Do I even want to know what's going on?"

"Doubt it."

"If you don't eat something, House will make me pay for it in blood."

"Provided I tell him." Wilson just looks tired now, exhausted, like a man who's been driving for eighteen hours and is still too far from home. "Sorry. This's not yer job, shouldn' be yer problem, but I din't know who else to call. Gimme an Ensure; I'll choke that down. Eat somethin' real in the morning."

The look on Wilson's face, and the fact that he's not getting out of bed to do things for himself, answers at least one of Chase's questions. The extra oxycodone was definitely necessary.    

 

* * *

House hadn't needed to tell Chase to sleep on the sofa. There's no way he would take the only other option, and lie down in House's bed. 

"I'll need a couple blankets," he says, and Wilson points to the hallway closet. 

"Pillows're in there too." 

"Thanks." Chase finds what he needs quite easily, and resists a vague temptation to do a little snooping while he's at it. He catches the thought and figures he's been working for House for too long. He's done far too much breaking, entering, and rooting through other people's stuff.

The one pillow he finds is lumpy and threadbare, but it'll do. It smells like the closet, like aged fabric and cedar. Through the open bedroom doorway he can see the big, soft feather pillows House has.  Chase could put a fresh case on one of those, but that would feel entirely too weird.  He remembers changing the linens on his mother's bed, _after_. The pillows had still held her scent for months and he never could figure out if it was a comfort or a horror. Eventually his father had thrown them away, and young Robert hadn't even known whether to be angry about it.

Carrying the old blankets ( _very_ old blankets; he notes that Wilson has all the best ones) to the sofa, Chase thinks about that and hopes that nothing's dying here, now. 

"You get my old bed tonight," says Wilson, the faintest smile forming at one corner of his mouth. "Trade ya. You take th' nice comfy hospital bed, an' the meds an' wires an' ... all the shit. I'll sleep onna sofa."

He's slurring a bit, the drugs and the exhaustion combining to soften all his edges.  

"Sorry," says Chase, "but I know a good deal when I've got one."

There's a faint sound of footsteps in the building's entry hall. Wilson looks at the door, eyes widening, freezing in place like a startled rabbit. The steps fade; it must have been one of the neighbors passing by.  Chase watches Wilson catch himself, pushing back whatever fear this is, making himself breathe again. This is new and it's troubling. Never before has Wilson seemed _afraid_ for House to come home.

_Not even wet and naked Carmen Electra_. House's words come back to him like a shock wave; he'd been too puzzled to pay much attention at the time. Maybe it's not _House_ that Wilson's afraid of. What the hell happened here?

Chase picks up his book again, wrinkling his nose at it as if it were day-old roadkill. Who needs _The da Vinci Code_ when real life has become so insane? He throws it into the trash can by House's desk.

"Good call," mumbles Wilson. "Hated that book."

Chase doesn't reply, but he does go and re-check the lock and deadbolt, wondering all the while what it is, who it is, that he's trying to keep out.


	78. Aftershocks 36.3: The Worst of All Possible Worlds

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** You can run, but you can't hide.   
**CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson, OMC  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**The Worst of All Possible Worlds**

 

The couch in Wilson's office is squeaky and surprisingly comfortable, but after the emotional turmoil of the day House can't fall asleep easily, and so he spends a couple of long hours staring at the ceiling.

It's perhaps a measure of his desperation that he simply hadn't known where else to go. Cuddy would have asked too many questions and expected answers -- answers that he's still not ready to give. Wilson's office has a door that locks, so he'll camp out here, use the connecting balcony to appear in his own office tomorrow morning as if he's just come from the apartment. Everything will seem completely normal.

The operative word, of course, being "seem."

_Wait him out,_ House thinks wearily. _He'll tire of his game and leave when I don't react. He always does. Then I can try and pick up the pieces._

**If there are any pieces left to be picked up,** a soft little voice in his mind points out, and House is so, so sick of that little voice. **And what if he doesn't go away this time? What if he decides to change the rules?**

_Bars on the windows. Gun. No, something bigger. A howitzer. Maybe that'll keep Martin away._ He turns onto his left side, buries his face in the pillow Wilson keeps in his office.

The pillow smells faintly of Wilson -- aftershave, something cedar-y, and the clean, lemon hint of shampoo. The little voice has fallen silent.

_Flamethrower. Bear trap. Bomb. That's it. Some kind of bomb. Blow Martin up into a million pieces, wipe him off the face of the earth._

And a bomb would be particularly apt, seeing as how this has blown up so spectacularly in his face.

_Big bomb,_ House thinks. _Big, big bomb._

_Hiroshima._

* * *

It takes him a moment to realize where he is -- he's never woken up to Wilson's model sailboat, seemingly cruising towards him, an invisible wind in its rigging. He sits up slowly; his leg is aching from not sleeping in his own bed and he straightens it out carefully. He fishes his cellphone from his pocket and punches in his own number.

There's no answer.

House frowns and looks at the tiny backlit screen. _Yup, that's the right number._ He tries again.

No answer.

_There's an explanation,_ he tells himself. _Wilson probably wanted one of those girly coffees from Starbucks and Chase went to get him one._

He tries Chase's cell.

No answer. He lets it ring ten times, twelve, fifteen. Fingers beginning to tremble, he pages Chase. _Come on,_ he whispers, repeating it like a mantra. _Come on, come on, come on, fucking answer!_

But Chase doesn't answer, and House barely ties his shoelaces before he's out the door and on his bike.

* * *

The apartment door is closed and reassuringly locked, but House can't shake the terrible feeling that something's _wrong,_ so deeply and unreservedly wrong that there aren't even words for it. The feeling only grows when he steps inside the apartment and calls for Wilson.

There's no response, not even the hollow thump of a fist against a wall, and his pulse begins to speed up. "Wilson?" he calls again, louder, as he locks the door behind him and sets his helmet on the table. "Chase?"

He's turning to take his jacket off when he spots it. The pink paper. A fucking _Financial Times_ is tightly folded on his fucking coffee table.

"Oh, you sick son of a _bitch,"_ House mutters, and pivots quickly, looking around.

The living room is silent and empty; the blankets and top sheet of Wilson's bed lie in a twisted tangle on the floor. Telephone components are strewn around the living room; the receiver's been stomped into sharp plastic fragments and the phone cord, ripped from the wall outlet, resembles a thin beige snake coiled beside it. The coffee table and the sofa are shifted at odd angles, and the one good lamp has been tipped onto the sofa cushions. 

Wilson's laptop is also on the floor. Its screen blinks frantically, scrolling bright green machine language as it tries to reboot itself.

House growls. He takes a deep breath and brings his cane up, holding it in front of him in both hands like a _shinai_ in Japanese _kendo_. The adrenaline is pumping through his system like he's hotwired into some blazing biological circuit, and it takes all of his self-control to move cautiously down the hallway.

It's in this way that he almost trips over Chase.

_Oh fuck,_ House breathes. _Oh Jesus oh fuck._ He kneels awkwardly; Chase is lying on his back, arms outflung. His mouth is open in a curious round "O", frozen forever in an expression of astonishment. The bullet hole in his right temple, where Martin administered the _coup de grace,_ is surprisingly small, with a dark ring of powder burn around it. Reflexively, House touches his neck, feels for a pulse, but Chase's body is already cool.

House draws in a shuddering, gasping breath. He can see it all -- Martin at the door, cloaked in night. Getting Chase to open up, talking his way in, then turning cold eyes on Chase that make him back away, the gun coming up ... 

Martin always did have a way with words. Charming, charming _bastard --_

There's a soft noise from the bedroom; House's head jerks up. Nothing he can do for Chase. He rises slowly and pushes open the door with his cane.

All the lights are on in the bedroom, and House blinks for a moment as his eyes adjust.

"Sherlock!" Martin's voice is jovial and welcoming. "We've been waiting for you!"

The fear in House's gut threatens to explode into an overwhelming panic as he surveys the scene in front of him, and he struggles to stay calm.

Martin is there, sitting comfortably in a kitchen chair. His craggy face brightens in a happy smile, and he pats Wilson's head affectionately.

"See?" he says. "I told you he'd come."

Wilson doesn't answer -- there's a strip of duct tape across his mouth. He's on his knees, hands tied behind his back, and Martin has him positioned between his legs like some kind of goddamn faithful dog. Wilson looks at House, his eyes clear and accusing.

_Your fault,_ they seem to say. _All your fault. Why didn't you stop him when you had the chance?_

"I couldn't!" House says desperately. "I was just a kid! What --" 

_What the fuck is going on here?_

Martin laughs; it's a joyous, rolling laugh, full of good humor and amusement, and he picks up something that's been resting in his lap the entire time. The knife glitters in the lamplight.

"We'll have fun, I think. Just like the old days." 

"Martin ... no," House whispers. His tongue feels thick and heavy, and he stumbles over the words. His lips hurt. Why do his lips hurt? _This is wrong, this is all wrong._

Martin stares at him; his voice is maddeningly calm.

"I'm using the eight-inch, just as you suggested," he says. He fists his right hand in Wilson's hair and yanks his head back.

"You should have kept the friend you had, Greg," Martin says softly. "In the end, the others will always leave you."

And with a swift, sure stroke, he draws the blade across Wilson's throat.

* * *

_**"NO!"**_ House screams, and bolts upright. 

There's a boat, its sails a ghostly white from the glow of the hospital streetlights outside. Wilson's office. He's in Wilson's office, on Wilson's couch, and it was all ... 

House is breathing hard, panting like he's just run a marathon. He pulls his cellphone from his pocket and frantically punches in his own number.

It's ringing -- _"Pick up, pick up,"_ House chants out loud. "Pick up pick up will you pick up _the fucking --"_

"H'lo?"

Chase's voice, muzzy with sleep. 

"Chase!" House barks.

"House? What's the -- are you okay?"

House hesitates. What can he say? _No, I'm not okay; I just dreamed I got both you and Wilson killed by a psycho fuck who's succeeded in turning my goddamn life completely upside down?_ Something like that?

"House?" Chase's voice is sharper now, concerned.

"Nothing," House says at last. "Never mind. Just ... go back to sleep, okay?"

He snaps the phone shut before Chase can ask any more questions.

House repeats to himself, silently and in the dark, _"They're safe. They're safe. They're -- "_

**You have to stop running,** the little voice whispers.

He doesn't go back to sleep.


	79. Aftershocks 37.1: Hurry Up and Wait

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Wilson has some time to think it over. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, Chase **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

  
**Hurry Up and Wait**

****

 

****Wilson stares at the door and tries not to wonder what the hell will happen next.

He made it through the night, barely, with the aid of more drugs than he really ought to be taking at this point. He had kept waking up with this awful feeling as if he were wrapped up in cotton, a thin layer of padding between himself and his horrible dreams. Once morning had come he'd slept in earnest, the combination of daylight and Chase (and a little more oxycodone) serving to push back his terror far enough to let him rest.

It's afternoon now and there's nothing on TV, nothing left to do around the apartment since Chase already made breakfast (such as it was) and cleaned up the kitchen. 

Wilson has already showered -- and had to resist, once again, the urge to scrub himself raw. He's brushed his teeth as well as he can, combed his hair, put on loose, clean clothes; he's all dressed up, but where could he go? He stands at the window and looks at the sidewalks, the buildings with their cheery window boxes full of marigolds.  Martin's out there somewhere. There might be more guns, another limo ride. Is it better to be a moving target, or a sitting duck?

House would know; House knows Martin. Unfortunately.

Chase seems to be at loose ends. He hasn't suggested that they play any games, hasn't tried to make small talk, and Wilson's glad for that. House must have told Chase to _sit_ and _stay,_ instead of coming to work, and how unfair is that? A man should know if he's being asked to risk life and limb.

It's not fair, but Wilson's not going to tell him, either.

Chase has taken up residence at House's desk. He's working on something on his own notebook computer, an article perhaps, or letters to loved ones in Australia, or oh, what the hell does it matter. Wilson can see the computer screen and he's somewhat relieved that Chase isn't surfing for porn. _How wrong is it,_ Wilson wonders, _that I've got all this time to waste and I don't even want to **think** about sex?_  

He doesn't want to think about anything, really, and he curses his brain for its unwillingness to shut up.

House hasn't called, except for that thing at some ungodly hour last night, when the ringing phone had woken Wilson into an instant state of panic. He hadn't bothered explaining to Chase that House has been having nightmares. House thinks he's been hiding that unpleasant fact, but Wilson knows. If he doesn't tell Chase, though, it's not because he's guarding House's secret. Already there are a dozen unasked questions flickering behind Chase's calm gaze. It's bad enough.

Wilson turns away from the window, climbs back into bed and wonders whether sleep will come again. 

 

* * *

Sleep does not come, but it's time for _General Hospital_ anyway.  In spite of himself, Wilson turns on the TV. The phone still doesn't ring. Wilson decides not to hate himself for wishing that it would.

Whatever it is that's between him and House, he can't name it. He's already tried every word he can think of, even the ones he dislikes, and none of them fit.

What fits is an image from a campy horror flick he saw as a kid, in which the monster could be shot, burned, crushed, stabbed in the back, or anything else you could imagine -- and it wouldn't die. It would slow down for a while; it would wail in ghastly agony; it would drag its sundered limbs back to its body and reunite by supernatural force.

There is no name for that, and that's how it is with him and House.

He holds up his right hand to the lamplight, inspecting the bruise and the little red cuts where his knuckles met with House's teeth. It was a fantastic right hook, and he's not the least bit sorry; it was so satisfying to watch the bastard reel in shock as his lip began to bleed. It's about time House bled a little. Being shot by a stranger didn't count, not for House, who has so little fear of death. But if Wilson drew blood, that was a whole other thing.

House doesn't need to know this yet, but the thing he's afraid of is not going to happen. Not now and not ever.

It's something Wilson had tried to imagine in the months after Tritter compelled House to fight authority and damn the torpedoes. House's case had been dismissed, but Wilson had remained on trial, with House's fury looming over him like a  sinister hand. He had dreamed of building another life, far from this place. In the weeks before he'd been taken, he'd gone so far as to reasearch other hospitals, other towns, other states. As if he really would have done it.

He's given up telling himself that lie. There are other sanctuaries, but none where he could stay for long. House _knows him_ , knows all the weaknesses, all the dirty spots, all his lies and betrayals. All the things Wilson would inevitably take with him wherever he went. House knows all the worst of it, and still House is there. He had abused and neglected Wilson for months, but he'd always been there. When it really, desperately mattered, House had still taken him home.

His gaze wanders over this now-too-familiar interior. He's reclining in the bed House brought in for him, with House's quilt wrapped around his shoulders. On the wall near the window there's a calendar. It features fluffy Golden Retriever puppies, altered expertly with a felt marker. Now they're suffering from mangy lesions, and they all have horns, and fangs that drip blood. Below their feet there's a wild jumble of multicolored X marks: House has been crossing off the days until the wires come out of Wilson's jaw.

If he left, he knows just how his new life would be. He'd dive into his new job, and he would lock these memories away. He'd pretend he'd never been here, never lived sad and alone in a hotel, never lied to the police or walked away from House on Christmas morning. Soon he'd have a beautiful lover, a dozen pleasant acquaintances and not a friend in the world. It's just how he is. He doesn't show himself; he doesn't know how. House, even at his worst, is the one true thing that Wilson has.

To trade that friend for anything is not a deal he can make. The grey-eyed psychopath had asked him whether House was worth all this. Of course he isn't; no one is, but it's an irrelevant question. A fifty-foot rope is worth ten dollars, unless you're hanging off the side of a cliff. House is non-negotiable.

But House, the rotten son of a bitch, can go on being afraid for a few more hours.

 

* * *

He wakes to the sound of the blender running and realizes that he dozed off before the end of the soap. It takes a moment for him to remember that it's Chase in the kitchen.

"Wish there was something better I could get you," Chase says, placing the huge cup on the coffee table. Wilson thinks of tomato bisque soup, and feels ill. Something in his mind whispers, _Get me House_ ; he mentally claps his hand over that murmuring voice.

"It's obvious you punched him," Chase states, quite abruptly but in a soft voice. "And I don't need to know why. But I know that you've been lying about the attack." Wilson shuts his eyes and sighs through his nose. This is _so_ not what he needs right now.

"Don't worry. I'm not Cameron. Not going to broadcast it on CNN. I don't even want the real story. I just thought it might help to know you don't have to keep telling me the fake one."

"How?" Wilson asks, and counts on his expression to fill in the rest of the question.

"House. Not once did he ask what you were lying about. Therefore, he already knew. And obviously," Chase continues, looking around them with a faint smile, "he sides with you. I'm not saying you shouldn't have hit him," he adds, "because you must have had a damn good reason."

"I did," Wilson affirms, and reaches for his cup. "Your point?"

"I'm -- you've got no way of knowing. When you came in, he went completely insane. Security had to drag him away. Literally. I was with you at the time, but I heard all about it from the ER staff."

Wilson turns his head, not really wanting to hear this today. He doesn't figure on Chase's skill at reading people, until it's too late.

"Look, I don't want to know exactly what happened or why," Chase admits, slowly, "but. I can't help wondering. Is this somehow House's fault?"

"Yes. No." He puts down the cup and hides his eyes beneath his hand. "It -- God. If you tell him --"

"I won't."

"Partly. Bes' answer I can give. Unf'seen consequences. His fault, but he couldn'a known." There's an amazing relief in saying even that much. "House din't know. Tha's not why I hit 'im. Other reasons f'that."

"A whole list, no doubt."

Wilson sighs again. "He -- all I'm gonna say's he -- was tryin'a protect me. An' he picked a really stupid way." _And now_ , says that same irritating part of Wilson's mind, _we're both lying to **you** , not telling you about .._. 

He's startled out of that thought when he hears Chase softly chuckle.

"Sorry. It just reminds me of someone else I know," Chase says, and he's obviously suppressing his smile. "Who occasionally does some, ah, _remarkable_ things. For the same reason, and with similar results." Chase makes a hasty retreat back to the kitchen and then there's the sound of water running, dishes being washed.

It's amazing how hard it can be to swallow a liquid lunch. There are strawberries in this stuff today, and they taste acidic and sour. He forces down enough to prevent nausea from the meds he's got to take, and then inspects his hand again. He can still see the cop, still hear that soft, _reasonable_ voice. _You're doing the right thing, Doctor Wilson._

Same reason; similar results. The only difference was that House chose to hit someone else.


	80. Aftershocks 37.2: Fallout

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** The only thing worse than coming home alone is being alone when you get there. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson, Cuddy (with appearances by the Fellows) **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

  
**Fallout**

 

In the predawn hours the hospital is so quiet. There's no team to contend with, no Cuddy to accost him. There are no new patients wanting to be seen for ordinary, boring ailments.

There's only House, and House's mind, and this problem. This _thing_. He shifts on the sofa, which isn't quite long enough to accommodate the full stretch of his exhausted body. If that body had any sense, it would be sleeping, but no. 

For what feels like the millionth time, House considers the option of going to his Rolodex and pulling out the card of one Mr. William Arnello, mobster. 

The problem with that plan, House thinks as he stares at the stripes of light that come in through Wilson's balcony blinds, is that there are way too many unknowns. It would be like playing _Wheel of Fortune_ , setting the wheel into motion and praying it won't stop at _BANKRUPT_. 

He's using the spare pillow that Wilson -- because Wilson is a dork -- keeps in one of the bottom cabinets in his big fancy bookshelf. It smells like wood. House leans his head backward into it, shutting his eyes.

In his mind he plays out a scene in which he talks to Bill, explaining what happened to Wilson and what is happening now. Any number of things might then occur. He can see them all with equal clarity.

Bill might laugh at him. House can hear it. _You fuckin' jackass, you did what? Who'd you think you were fuckin' with, Mary fuckin' Poppins? Your friend lived; you got lucky. No way in hell're we gonna touch that shit. We got enough trouble._

For all House knows, Reno and the Arnello clan might even do business with each other. If that's the case, their loyalty will always be to one another—and to the flow of cash.

And if it got back to Reno that House had been trying to interfere with Martin? Not good. Not good at all. Probably there'd be a tragic incident in which a drug-crazed robber shot House dead on the street. Oh, so sad. House imagines that Martin would even attend the damn funeral.

Then again, Bill might not laugh at him. Bill might reassure him, _Don't you worry about that. Nobody's gonna hurt your family again. We got it._ His people would track down Martin Grey and then ... and then what? This much House knows: Martin is much smarter than a dozen Arnellos. Chances are he'd see them coming a mile away, and then there'd be a couple dead mobsters and one very alive—and vengeful—psychopath.

Even if Bill's guys managed to kill Martin, that wouldn't be the end. As things stand now the Arnello gang figures that the score between themselves and House is even. House saved one of their own; they rewarded him handsomely in the form of gleaming red metal, horsepower, chrome. 

Maybe, just maybe they'd do this huge favor for House, but then they'd own him. Eventually they would demand something in return, something big, and he'd have to do it or else. Not such a big deal if only it were possible to predict what the demand would be and what the _or else_ would entail.

House had reflexively stood up to Georgie Reno, his defiant nature making him refuse to be bullied. That tactic had served well enough in the past, so House had failed to consider all the possible repercussions. It hadn't occurred to him that they'd hurt someone else. Or that Georgie Reno might employ Martin ... who is, after all, an independent contractor. 

_It's possible_ , House realizes with a sudden, sickening chill, _that the Arnellos have also found Martin's talents useful_. 

He pulls his aching body up and off Wilson's sofa. Much as he needs coffee, he won't be drinking any; his stomach's already churning and he knows he'd puke. It's been that kind of night, that kind of stress, that many extra Vicodin. 

Coffee will have to come later. Right now, he's going to find his Rolodex. He's going to pull out the card of one Mr. William Arnello, mobster. Then he's going to tear it up and throw the pieces into the bin marked _Biohazard_.

House always hated _Wheel of Fortune_ anyway.

 

* * *

House makes sure to wander into the conference room at his normal time, despite the fact that he's been awake for hours. Wilson's office couch is more comfortable than it looks, but that doesn't mean it makes for a good night's sleep.

"Where's Chase?" Cameron asks idly from her spot behind her desk. House slams the coffeepot back into the machine. Foreman and Cameron exchange a _significant_ look.

"The fuck do you care?" he shouts and stumps into his office.

He doesn't usually swear at his employees; he's usually much more eloquent in his verbal assaults. Apparently it's rare enough to convince them to leave him alone. Finally, finally, a lesson has been pounded through their thick skulls.

Just before noon, House notices a flash of light from the conference room door swinging shut. He glances up to see Cameron heading out. Foreman's got his nose buried in a pile of patient charts and paperwork. He doesn't so much as look up when House ventures out of his office for more coffee and a raid on Cameron's pathetic lunch.

At two o'clock, House is debating whether it's worth it to make his way to the locker rooms for a shower, or if he'd rather remain a smelly ball of misery in his desk chair. As he's weighing the pain of moving against the relief of hot water, Cuddy swishes into the office.

"Don't," he growls before she can say anything.

The distinctive _click_ of a plastic pill bottle being set on a glass desk is enough to make him swivel around. Cuddy has her arms crossed protectively over her stomach, and she looks as sorrowful as he's ever seen her. A fresh bottle of Vicodin is sitting between them.

He keeps looking at that bottle as he says, quietly, roughly, "Thank you. Now get out."

Cuddy doesn't move. "You look terrible. Why don't you—"

"You need to go. Now."

"Or what?" Her voice is quiet to match his but no less steely. "You'll say something awful? I've already heard your worst."

House flinches and stares resolutely at the floor.

"Go home, House. Take the day, take a pill, take a shower. Come back tomorrow when you won't be mistaken for a zombie."

She's almost to the door when House manages to say, "Cuddy." He hears her stop, but he can't look up. "I am sorry, you know. For that ... moth—" his breath catches when he feels her caress the back of his bowed head, her fingers sliding easily through his hair.

He hadn't heard her come back. He suddenly can't seem to finish what he wanted to tell her. He doesn't want her to stop.

The weight of her hand says _I know_ , the brush of her fingertips tells him _it's okay_. Miracle of miracles, he hasn't broken _everything_ in his life and maybe it would have been easier if he had, but he can't bring himself to push her away.

She leaves all too soon.

 

* * *

Knowing there's a full Vicodin bottle on his desk gives him enough _oomph_ to make it to the locker rooms and back. He collapses in his comfy chair and stays put until the conference room lights go off for the night. Neither Foreman nor Cameron bother to talk to him, although Cameron shoots him a look through the glass.

He calls for delivery because he needs at least _one_ decent meal for the day. When the kid arrives, he doesn't move from the chair, just tosses the cash and points at his footstool, which will serve well enough as a table.

Eventually he makes his way over the balcony wall and into Wilson's office. He's stiff from the combination of a long night on Wilson's couch and an even longer afternoon in his chair.

House has barely settled himself on the couch when his cell phone rings. He fumbles it onto the cushions when he sees it's his own apartment calling.

"Yeah," he says as neutrally as he can manage. Who would he hear? Wilson? Chase? He shudders in a breath as he thinks, _Oh, God, not Martin._

"Housh," Wilson answers, his voice slurred from trying to talk on the phone.

House turns the phone away so he can exhale loudly in relief, then quickly puts it back. "Wilson."

"Get over here."

"I don't—"

"Oh, _pleazh_ ," Wilson interrupts. "You can't take another night 'n my office, an' Chase wants'ta go home."

House shifts guiltily before reminding himself that Wilson can't actually see him. He forces his voice to be brighter than he's feeling. "Okay, fine. On my way."

Perhaps Wilson wants to hand his key back in person.

 

* * *

When House opens his apartment door, Chase is standing just inside. He gives House a sharp nod, then ducks out the door and down the hall before House can say anything. House closes and locks the door behind him and turns to survey the apartment.

Nothing is different. Even Wilson's suitcases look untouched.

"The lumberyard called," Wilson says, and his voice is coming from the kitchen. The next thing House hears is a message on the answering machine. Apparently the window bars House wants can be installed tomorrow.

House can't move from his spot by the door. His chest feels like it's caught in a vise; he's having a hard time getting enough breath.

Wilson's not gone. And he doesn't look like he's leaving.

In fact, he's wandering into the living room with two steaming mugs of something gripped in his right fist. He sets them both on the end table, then lowers himself onto the couch. "Hot choc'late."

"Why?" House whispers.

"Y' look like you c'd use it," Wilson answers and drops a straw into his mug before picking it up.

The man is entirely too dense for his own good. House manages a step closer, and asks again, "Why are you still _here_?"

Wilson leans back, settles further into the sofa cushions. He looks up with eyes that are far too shrewd. "You owe me a story."

House swallows, hard, and steps closer in spite of himself.

"You said _this is what he does_ ," Wilson continues. "Like he's done it before."

"Every ten years, like a fucking clock," House says, unable to stop the response from slipping free. Wilson couldn't have hit him harder if he'd punched him again. House turns as if to head for his bedroom.

"House." Wilson waves his mug, indicating the other mug steaming on the end table. "Sit down. We need to talk."

House walks behind the couch, behind Wilson. "No conversation beginning with those words has ever in the history of the world gone well."

"You owe me." Wilson's quiet words catch him just before he's escaped the room. They stop him in his tracks, make him turn around and settle himself on the couch. He picks up the mug of hot chocolate with a scowl and sips it. Made from scratch, with a little kick of spice, a surprise not unlike the man sitting next to him.

"The last time," House starts slowly, "I was glad you hadn't met him." Long years of _not discussing it_ doesn't make it any easier to start talking now. "He's got a thing for colors, likes to think of himself as an artist. He told Stacy his name was Adrian Black."

" _Stacy?_ "

"He likes to ... _insinuate_ himself. Tie me in knots trying to keep people in my life from finding out what he really is." _From finding out what I could have been._ House shifts uncomfortably, staring down into his mug.

After a short silence, Wilson asks, "And he ... just. Goes away?"

"Eventually," House answers with a little half-shrug. "In med school it was just a day. The last time it was ... weeks before I knew he was there. And then a couple weeks after that."

They sit in silence, sipping at their drinks. Wilson shifts forward like he's going to try to rise but he stops, perched on the edge of the couch. He looks so much like his old self that House's breath catches in his throat and he has to look away.

"How could I have missed it?" Wilson asks softly. "You were ... I thought you and Stacy had a fight or something."

"You missed it because I wanted you to miss it," House says just as softly. "I wanted _him_ to miss _you_. He'd already gotten to her; I didn't want to give him any more ... leverage. Any more ... friends ... whose lives he could hold over me." He risks a glance at Wilson. "And I did fight with Stacy. She liked him."

Wilson gapes, or he would be gaping if he could open his jaw.

"Oh, you would have liked him, too, under other circumstances. My own mother adores him. Everyone does. That's why he's so damn dangerous."

House drains his mug and sets it down. He bounces his cane against the floor. "You didn't leave."

"Either that or yer hallucinating."

"Am I?"

Wilson settles back into the couch again, shifting until he's comfortable enough to lean his head back on the cushions. "No."

"Good." That's all he can think of to say about that. _Good_. House gets up and, without another word, heads directly to the shower.

Wilson's silence follows him all the way down the hall. He'll take Wilson's silence over an empty living room any day.  
   


  


	81. Aftershocks 38.1: The Green Fuse

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** _"And that's why it's a bond that can never, ever be broken."_   
**CHARACTERS:** OMC, House  
 **RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**The Green Fuse**

Martin takes his usual seat at La Belle Aurore and looks around. The little cafe is virtually deserted at this odd hour between lunch and dinner, so he settles deeper into the plush velvet armchair by the front window and smiles at Marla, who smiles back as she approaches.

"The usual?" The usual is Papua New Guinea coffee, fresh, mellow and black. 

"Naturally." He removes his hat and places it alongside his book, on the small table in front of him.

The early evening sunlight is turning the tops of the buildings orange and gold, and throwing the entry to Greg's place into purplish shadows. Incredible how easy it's been for Martin to sit right here, in plain sight just two doors down, across the street. For almost two weeks now he has come here to sip coffee, read, and observe. If only life were always this pleasant.

He smiles a little at the sight of the workmen, their ladders propped against the side of Greg's apartment, their tools scattered around on the sidewalk. It looks like they've almost finished installing security bars on the windows.

It doesn't require too much deductive reasoning to know that it's his little joke, two days ago, that prompted this defensive measure.

He'd sat in this very spot, watching it unfold ...

 

**_Forty-Eight Hours Previously_ **

 

Greg should be home any time now. 

He's pleased with his latest gambit. The appearance of the newspaper in Greg's apartment had quite an effect; he'd walked away, smiling, at the sound of crashing objects, of panic. It's been almost an hour since then, and he's spent most of that time in the little bookstore adjacent to the cafe, browsing -- and watching through the windows.

He'd walked out today with an antique first edition of the writings of Marcus Aurelius. He pulls the slim volume from his coat pocket and inhales that divine scent of old paper, worn leather, and fresh coffee. Marla appears with a mug in hand, setting it gently before him. 

"Thank you, my dear."

He opens the book and leafs through the first few pages, then forges ahead, scanning sentences at random. The words of the Roman Emperor and Stoic philosopher seem to leap off the yellowed paper.

_Be content to seem what you really are._

_Death is a release from the impressions of the senses, and from desires that make us their puppets, and from the vagaries of the mind, and from the hard service of the flesh._

_Life is neither good nor evil, but only a place for good and evil._

He takes a sip of coffee and hisses softly at the heat.

From across the street, the roar of a motorbike announces that Greg has come home. 

Martin takes another sip and continues to read, glancing up from time to time. 

He notes the arrival of someone else -- a young man, blond hair, and after a moment he puts a name to the face.

Robert Chase.

And now ... what's this? Greg is _leaving_ \-- carrying a bag which he straps to his bike. 

His body language is angry, dejected, stiff. Frightened.

Instinctively, Martin starts to rise from his seat, and it's at that moment that his cell phone rings. 

"Grey."

It's Jenny, Mr. Reno's secretary, with the itinerary of his next business trip. Martin takes abbreviated notes on a convenient napkin.

_JFK - CDG - SVO_  
l'Espace Affaires  
5:40 pm AR 

By the time he ends the call and clicks the phone shut, Greg is gone.

He sighs and pushes up his cuff to check his watch, then stops. Peeking out from under the leather strap of his Raymond Weil is the telltale white thread of a very old, almost invisible scar on the inside of his wrist. Martin stares at it, swept back by the clarity of an unexpected memory.

It was the summer they met, when he gave Greg the microscope.

Greg was twelve, Martin seventeen, and the boy had been so excited over the gift. The microscope, all sleek and burnished metal and glass, with small knurled knobs for inquisitive young fingers, had been Martin's when he was Greg's age.

They'd taken it outside, into the morning sunlight. Greg had lifted it, carefully, almost reverently from its wooden case and had set it gently on a large flat rock near the pond. Insects had been buzzing, and birds singing ...

 

**_Thirty-Five Years Ago_ **

 

The first object they look at is a blade of grass; Martin shows Greg how to flatten it out on the glass slide and place the slide on the stage. How to tilt the small round mirror at the 'scope's base so that it catches the light and redirects it upwards, through the slide, the grass, and up the objective lens all the way to the eyepiece, where the green blade explodes in the boy's eye like a tiny emerald universe of chlorophyll and ribosomes.

The boy looks up, his face radiant with wonder.

"Mitrochondrion," Martin says. "Golgi bodies. And that's just in a _plant._ There's a whole world out there to explore, just waiting. And you can see it all."

After that Greg is unstoppable -- they examine an oak leaf, a blue jay's feather, the desiccated wing of a dead butterfly (the iridescent powder rubs off on their fingers like glittering fairy dust). A hair from Mrs. Tabatchnik's yappy little dog next door goes under the lens, then a hair from Greg's head, and one from Martin's.

At last Martin fetches a cup of water from the pond and uses his fingers to plop a fat droplet onto a slide. He flattens it out with a coverslip and clips the slide onto the stage. Putting his eye to the ocular lens, he adjusts the magnification until ... _there,_ and the tiniest live creatures in the pond pop into view.

He turns his head, smiles at Greg. "Want to see something really cool?"

"Yeah!" 

The boy looks, and stays looking for a long time. Martin knows what he's seeing -- nematodes and amoebas, diatoms and water bears. Mites of life, teeming in a drop of water.

At last Greg leans back.

"This is the best present in the whole world," he says, as if to himself.

And that, Martin remembers, was when it had all changed.

Martin frowns; the boy suddenly won't meet his eyes, and just a moment ago he'd been so taken with the gift ...

"Hey," Martin says softly. "What's wrong?"

Still the boy won't look at him, but after a moment he answers.

"I wish you were my real brother," he says.

Martin sits back. The sun is warm on his shoulders and the light reflects in dazzling splinters off the surface of the pond. For one of the very few times in his young life, he's at a loss as to what to say or do. Greg is hunched into himself, tracing a forefinger over one of the stage clips holding the slide in place, and with a burst of utter clarity Martin knows exactly what comes next.

"We can be ... in a way," he says, and there, the boy is looking at him again, those blue eyes wide with curiosity.

"How?"

Martin pretends to scratch at his head, as if he's having second thoughts. "It might hurt a little bit."

Greg straightens. He's out of his hunch, his skinny shoulders back.

"I'm not afraid."

An oddly _warm_ feeling suffuses Martin's chest. 

"Brave boy," he says, and hides a smile as Greg's face flushes with pride. He straightens out of his own crouch so that he can tug his jackknife from his jeans pocket.

The boy's eyes widen as he watches Martin snap the small knife open.

"Remember in those books I gave you -- Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, the Knights of the Round Table, Odin and Loki, how they were all connected, bound together even though they weren't born as family?"

Greg nods. His eyes are still fixed on the gleaming silver blade.

"They all had one thing in common, Greg. They were _blood brothers."_ He moves the knife, just a little, so that the sunlight dances along the blade. "They mingled their blood and swore an oath that would last forever." Martin leans forward and whispers, as if imparting a great secret. "Even beyond _death."_

"Wow," Greg breathes.

Martin nods solemnly. "Wow."

"And ... it's _better_ than being ... _sibling_ brothers because ... "

Martin is silent, letting Greg work it out on his own.

"... because it's us _choosing._ To be brothers." The boy is practically wriggling now in his excitement. "That's it, isn't it, Martin? It's _better_ , because it's out of our own free will, and not something we were born with!"

"That's right," Martin agrees. "And that's why it's a bond that can never, ever be broken." 

"Wow," Greg says again, and chews at his bottom lip for a moment. When he looks at Martin again his eyes are clear and resolute.

"I want to do this," he says.

Martin snaps the knife shut, snaps it open again. The boy doesn't flinch at the sound.

"You're sure? Your mom might ask questions."

Greg shakes his head. "I'll just put a Band-Aid over it. She never notices anything anyway."

Martin doesn't contradict the boy. It's the truth. "All right, then," he says, and, gesturing for Greg to follow suit, arranges himself on his knees. He fishes his lighter from his pocket and flicks the sparkwheel, applying the flame to the tip of the knife. In seconds the tip is blackened, glowing faintly like a fragment of charcoal. Martin shuts the lighter and slips it back into his jeans. He holds up his left wrist, shows it to Greg. The boy swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, then holds out his own left arm. 

The cuts are small, hardly more than deep scratches, but the blood welling from them is more than enough for the intended purpose.

Martin presses their wrists together, holding them tight with his right hand. 

The boy's face is pale, but he didn't cry out when Martin cut him, and for that Martin feels another surge of warmth in his chest.

The sun is very bright now, directly overhead, and the youth and the boy cast no shadows.

"Blood brothers," Martin says softly. "Now and forever."

"Blood brothers," the boy echoes, and after a moment Martin releases their wrists. Greg stares at his own wrist, smeared crimson. He seems slightly dazed. 

Martin busies himself by wiping his knife clean with a tissue from the microscope supplies, giving the boy time to recover.

And because he's not watching, not paying attention, he's taken completely by surprise when the boy's arms come around his ribs, squeezing tight in a fierce hug.

"Oof," Martin grunts, and looks down in bewilderment. What's he supposed to _do?_

"Hey," he tries, but Greg doesn't move. If anything, his arms tighten a bit more. Finally Martin puzzles it out, and, cautiously, he lays his own right arm across the boy's gawky shoulders. That seems to do the trick; the boy's grip loosens and Martin gently untangles himself.

"Look," he says. Greg looks up at him; his eyes are shining and Martin is nervous that he can't read the expression in them. "Look -- I'll show you something a lot more interesting than pond water."

He takes Greg's wrist; a few tiny droplets of blood are still bright against the tan flesh, and Martin picks up a clean slide and touches it to one of the drops.

"Here's what's inside of you," he says, placing a coverslip over the droplet. It spreads out immediately, a tiny red film.

"What's inside all of us."

* * *

Martin puts down a twenty for the waitress.

He's got to leave on Sunday morning, and that means he needs to leave Princeton now in order to be ready.

Business must come first. He could've taken the man that day, instead of just pushing a newspaper through the slot. He'd thought of it, but he had known it would be unwise. Dr. Wilson would have been a feast, a whole spread of secrets, of strength and fear -- far too sumptuous to have been abandoned after sampling only a little. It had taken all Martin's considerable restraint the first time, to hold himself back from savoring every twitch and shudder, every tear, every drop of blood until there was nothing left but scraps. 

If Martin took hold of James Wilson again, he would not leave the table until the man was dead. 

His body would never be found, of course, but the story -- the disappearance of the courageous Head of Oncology who'd previously battled his way back from the brink of death (Martin could hear Wolf Blitzer even now) would inevitably make headlines.

Georgie Reno would find out. 

Employers don't care for contractors who go on personal vendettas. It's too risky to hire them; one never knows when their emotions will cloud their judgment. It's fun to tinker with Greg, to pull certain strings and watch him move around. But no one is worth the loss of Martin's carefully cultivated reputation. No one. Not even little Sherlock.

Martin stretches, and for just a moment he seems to hear the splash of water, the buzzing of insects in the grass, birdsongs. 

He rubs at his wrist absently and wonders if Greg ever looks at his own tiny, faded scar. It's really a shame he won't be able to ask him. He'd watched yesterday, as Greg had returned home, shoulders slumped, looking, if anything, more hangdog and desolate than when he'd left. 

He'd had every appearance of a man walking towards his own execution, and Martin had waited, eagerly, to see what happened. When Dr. Chase had left, he'd had every expectation of Greg following, kicked, once and for all, out of his own treehouse.

_Let's see how **Greg** likes it._

But he'd waited, and sipped his coffee, and waited some more ...

And _nothing_ had happened, and at last Martin had reluctantly taken his leave, still puzzling out what he had seen, and more importantly, what he hadn't.

Sighing, Martin places his fedora firmly on his head and adjusts it with a light touch, then reaches to close his book, still open beside the coffee mug. A single line catches his eye.

_Confine yourself to the present._

He hesitates then, and smiles. The old Roman was indeed wise.

This is the end of this visit, but before he goes, perhaps ... just perhaps, he can find one last surprise for his old friend.

 


	82. Aftershocks 40.1: Good Boy

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Sometimes, behaving yourself gets you nowhere. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House, and Wilson's mother **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

  
**Good Boy  
**

He watches her, tall and thin and tugging at the fabric of her dress as she tries to decide what to do with herself, where to stand or sit, what to say. The dress is a cheerful chameleon green, nicely cut, but she's squirming as if it doesn't quite fit. She always does that kind of thing when House is around. That, or when she's craving nicotine -- and Wilson has noticed that those two things coincide.

Emphysema killed her father. It took twelve years to crush the breath out of him, like laying on one stone after another. Cancer would've been merciful and quick by comparison. And here she is, fidgeting around House's living room because she can't cope with House and she wants a cigarette.

Her son is an oncologist and her father's lungs turned into tar paper, and she's guilty and knows better but she will never, ever quit.

_Willful ignorance must run in my family,_ Wilson thinks. What he says is, "Go have y'smoke. I promise I won' run off."

His mother gives a sad, sheepish little smile, runs a hand through her greying curls, and slips quietly out the front door. She takes two extra-quick steps as she passes the entrance to the kitchen, where House is standing.

He's been watching them with an interest as sharp as a scalpel, the keys to the Honda jingling in his impatient hand. House wants to _know_. He wants to know _everything_ , wants to observe and diagnose and catch both of them lying to each other, but he can't do it because his presence messes up the experiment. He'll try prying later, after she has left, and Wilson will deal with him then.

House is long gone by the time Bette Wilson steps back inside, perfuming the air with tobacco smoke. The scent doesn't bother Wilson as much as House thinks it does. It was the smell of his grandfather's living room, his mother's embrace, his brother sitting on the back porch when no one else was home.

"Big Bad Wolf wen' out for a while," Wilson tells her, and smiles. "You're safe now."

"Oh, James, I'm not afraid of him. You're ... you're sure this is the best place to recover, though, sweetie? It's not that I don't like Greg, but he has physical problems that ..." She sits on the couch, trying to smile back at him, lying a mile a minute. It doesn't last, and Wilson's almost relieved when her eyes start to glisten. At least her sorrow is the truth.

"How did this _happen?_ I didn't even know what to do when they called. I didn't think it could really be as bad as this, that -- Oh, James, why would anyone _do_ this?"

"I don' know," he replies. He's lying, and he's not, because he knows the reasons but he doesn't understand. He'll never, ever understand.

She rubs his arm, holds his right hand, asks him about the broken bones and surgeries and whether he's secure at work, and he tells her what she wants to hear. Another week or so with the wires and the sling. He's already doing physio exercises for his shoulder and his hand; there's an operation scheduled to straighten out his badly crooked nose. His job will be waiting. It'll be all right.

They'd hugged awkwardly when she first got in the door, but they haven't held onto one another in so long that they've forgotten how it works. Every movement is second-guessed, every word edited and censored. When Wilson gets up for a glass of water, his mom gets up too, but doesn't follow him. He sees her drifting around the apartment, looking at the rolling bed, the shelves full of so many wildly contradictory items. The cute-puppy calendar House bought and then defaced. The piano.

She's sitting on the piano bench as Wilson comes back into the room. He feels something twist inside him when she lifts the cover from the keys and settles a pointed shoe on the pedal. She shouldn't. It isn't that she's such a bad player, it's just --

" _Don't_."

"Honey, I was just --"

"I know. But don' touch it." He sighs, not knowing how to explain. "It's House's. It's -- nev'r mind, Mom. Tell me how you an' Dad are doing."

They're doing fine, of course. They're always doing fine. His dad's working nonstop on that Henderson project, so he couldn't come with her, but that's understandable. He's finally done something bright enough, bold enough to get noticed the way he deserves.

Wilson doesn't ask her if she honestly believes it'll happen; it's in her eyes that she does, just like she believed it all the times before. Just like she believes that David will come home this year and that James was attacked by a bunch of drugged-up kids. Just like she believes that Jonathan moved to California for the weather and the job market.

He watches her talking to him, and he knows that she loves him. He loves her too, he knows he does, but he wishes he knew who she was.

 

* * *

It always helps, going out on the bike. For an hour he rides, breathes, thinks of nothing, feels the velocity, the turns and the wind. Flight.

When he walks -- limps, grounded again -- back in the door, he's surprised to find Bette Wilson still there. Every time she sees him it's the same: a quick glance, a split-second widening of her dark eyes, a tightening of her posture.

"Nice ride?" says Wilson, and House knows he wouldn't ask such a dumb question, except that his mom's here and he needs to say _something_.

"It was a ride." House sees the growing tension in Bette's shoulders, the nervous fluttering of her fingers, and he makes himself look away before the target becomes irresistible. She's Wilson's mom, even if she's an idiot who wouldn't face reality if it ran her down with a steamroller.  
  
But it's Wilson, not Bette, who looks flattened. He's pressed down into the cushions like he's hoping to get swallowed up and lost. House stands there a moment, pondering, and tilts his head at Wilson, asking a question. Wilson's reply, a slow blink and one slightly exaggerated breath, is unreadable to Bette. That's good. She'd get all hurt and weepy if she knew that Wilson just asked him to _make her go away_.

He does it deftly, _nicely_. He sits right next to her, smiles at her, and it's a genuine smile because he loves every moment of this. If this woman would face the truth about anything, she wouldn't be afraid of him, but she won't and so he scares her. She deserves this. He watches her draw up into herself.

"I'm sure Jimmy's whined at you long enough," he says, and he's the very soul of geniality. "Why don't you tell us all about your cruise?"

He glances at the clock on the wall, and times it. In exactly sixteen seconds, she remembers that she's expected back at home.

 

* * *

"We're going somewhere," says House, as soon as the door closes behind Wilson's mom.

"Now? Where?" Wilson wants to close his eyes, sleep. Forget this whole dingy, stifling day.

"Soon as you get your pathetic butt up off my sofa, and it doesn't matter where. Somewhere."

"I don't -- House. I don' feel 'ike it."

"You haven't _felt like_ anything for two weeks now. You've got cabin fever, and you're too damn depressed to even know. Your mom just made it worse."

"Don' blame her if she ... doesn' know how t'handle it," he says, shutting his eyes against House's insistent stare. "I don' know either."

"We'll add amnesia to your list of symptoms. You were full of brilliant ideas when it was _my_ life. C'mon." He prods Wilson's shin with the cane, but he's quick and careful about it. The advantage of physical threats has been lost; Wilson knows House won't inflict any more pain. He opens his eyes, but doesn't move.

"Wasn' your fault, th' clot. Legit'mate medical ... disaster. If you 'ere useless six weeks later, 's unnerstannable."

"Yeah. You should be back at work now, shouldn't you? The sight of your pulverized nose would make all the chemo kids so _happy!_ Make 'em feel less self-conscious about being ugly and bald. You're being stupid; you do it every time you see your family."

"I was stupid t'get inna limo!" He says it before he can stop himself, this thing he's been thinking ever since that night in the barn. "Stupid, did wha' they said. I let 'em take me."

House stares at him with an expression of utter disbelief. "Were you lying about the _guns_? Or have you just forgotten what bullets _do_?"

"Was broad fuckn' daylight. People evvywhere. I coulda fought 'em, got away. Kicked, hit harder, somethin'." He stands up, inhales, feels the ache spreading outward from his spine. There are painfully inflamed bruises lingering throughout his body, the slow-healing knots of burst blood vessels and torn muscle fibers. "Went with'm like a scared lil' kid. Th' hell couldn' I fight back?

"Fight back," House says, his voice incredulous and flat. "Fight back, you say." Then he's almost shouting, "They'd have _shot you_ , you moron! And that's if -- _if_ they decided to have mercy!" House is all over the place, expending as much energy as possible through his feet, his cane, his hands. "You know what they'd have _done_ to you?!"

"Couldna been much worse," Wilson says, and even as the words come out he knows they're not true.

"Oh, couldn't it? Reno said you'd be a _fucking vegetable!_ You coulda been the next Terry Schiavo and you think you should've --"

"Reno." _No. This can't be real. It can't_. Wilson knows his feet are on the floor, but he can't feel them. He's been plunged into a freezing ocean.

"Told me he'd -- _**shit!**_ Wilson --"

"You knew. _You knew?_ " He staggers, his knees giving way, and catches himself on the arm of the sofa. He'd have believed a lot of things about House, but not this. "How could you've said --"

" _ **Shut up**_ , Wilson!" House is yelling in earnest now, and Wilson can't yell back half as well, but he tries.

"You _let 'em!_ _How_ \-- House -- "

" _He called me from the damn **barn!**_ " House has stopped moving and his voice is breaking apart like a shipwreck. Wilson's heard this once before: _No warning. I didn't know, I'd have paid_. He takes a breath, forcing back the dizzy sickness. There are many things House can fake, but not this.

"Martin. Called me. Held out the phone so I could ... hear it. I called Reno, tried to pay, make it stop." He's reliving it. It's all there in his eyes, in the brittle snap of the words as he forces them out. "He told me to go fuck myself. He said if I tried again they'd ..." he looks away, apparently unable to finish that sentence. 

"Nice set a frien's you found. The hell'd you _think_ would happen? Wha'd you think they'd do, you wouldn' pay? Break yer legs? Kill you? You even think of it?"

"I -- I thought that whatever they did would be my own problem." He looks like a child who's been banished to stand in the corner, downcast and still, staring at his sneakers. He's pressing his hands against his sides in that way he does when he's been _caught_.

"Ah. You get murdered, an' tha's not my problem." Wilson straightens himself, marches over to stand directly in front of his friend. Still his friend; an idiot, a jackass, but his friend all the same. His next question is soft, almost a plea. "Th' hell is _wrong_ with you, House? Which fucking wire doesn' connect in there?"  
  
There's no answer, but Wilson doesn't expect one. At such close range, he can easily see the fading greenish bruise and the small, healing cut on House's lip. Four days since that punch, and House hasn't come anywhere near him. It's hard for a cripple to walk on eggshells, but House has been trying, as if Wilson would hit him again. He must think -- what? That he deserves it?

Wilson rests a gentle hand on House's shoulder, stopping him before he can flee. "C'mon," he says, "Take y'meds, I'll take mine. An' then we'll go somewhere."


	83. Aftershocks 40.2: Contact, Part Two

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** We'll go somewhere. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

**  
**

  
**Contact, Part Two**

 

Cinco de Mayo was months ago, but the owners of this place haven't bothered taking down the yellow plastic bannersor the tiny Mexican flags that flutter in the blast of air conditioning above the bar. He glances up -- the eagle's wings seem to ripple as it devours the snake, both animals perched precariously on the cactus spines _._ This, Wilson thinks, is definitely House's kind of atmosphere.

It's like Christmas lights, left up till Easter by homeowners in the running for Laziest Human Ever _._

__Some things don't change.

Some things do: this time, House didn't try to get him drunk on tequila. Apparently House is only reckless with his _own_ liver. Wilson's, so recently damaged and repaired, House guards with almost comical care. No sooner did they step through the door than House announced -- as if he had to -- that he was holding Wilson to a one-beer limit.

Eventually, that will change back again, and House will resume his occasional efforts to get his best friend pleasantly bombed. 

Sometimes Wilson wonders whether other things will go back to the way they were -- that is, whether House will return to gambling; whether his own hand will ever stop hurting; whether certain fences between himself and House will ever be rebuilt. 

Wilson knows exactly when it changed. He'd looked longingly at that electric razor and invited House across a boundary line. At first he hadn't thought of it that way; he'd wanted to get rid of that awful scruff and he'd wanted to make House _understand_.

Then he'd felt House's fingers resting over his throat, over the carotid, and there was the warmth of a huge exhaled breath. Every motion House made seemed so much steadier after that, and some small, insistent part of Wilson's mind alerted him to the shift.

He'd given House an inch. House would take, if not a mile, at least several yards. Not because House was a bastard -- not this time -- but because he _needed_ this.

So Wilson had allowed it. House would check his IV line, or inspect his mangled hand for any sign of trouble. Once, he had even run the nurse away and changed the bandages on Wilson's splenectomy incision himself. "I want to see it," House had said.

He'd proceeded to inspect Wilson's whole torso, his fingers investigating every bruised and swollen inch. There'd been severe bleeding beneath the skin, and it would take many months before the dark colors faded and the inflammation went away. Wilson wasn't sure how, in the midst of all that mess, House could tell if something were truly wrong, but he was certain House would know. House always knew.

Now, Wilson thinks that it must be a matter of lifelong practice, a result of the way House intersects with the world. He feels the texture and weight of things, almost compulsively; he's the most _physical_ person Wilson's ever known.

House loves motorcycles and skateboards; alcohol; food; constant movement. He twirls that cane like a graceful baton. Any object that catches his interest, House will pick up, like a child who has to explore with his hands. He doesn't often touch _people_ , though, and he especially doesn't -- or didn't -- touch Wilson.

All the same, Wilson had often thought he could see the dirty, sticky, grape-jelly smudges all over himself, the fingerprints that mark him as House's friend. He knows that everyone else sees it too, and that when he's not in the room they smirk and tell jokes to each other. He's overheard a few remarks, embarrassed a couple of nurses who didn't realize he had walked up behind them.

He's more covered in those House-marks now than he ever was before. Now that he's been living with the man, subjecting himself to House's care and House's need. He's been accepting House's touches -- some of them clinical and some not and a lot of them both at once -- because if House's hand is on Wilson's shoulder, or on Wilson's back or inspecting his injuries, then it isn't on the bottle of pills or the tumbler of scotch.

House probably thinks that he doesn't notice, doesn't see the restless movements and glances, the guilty desire for reassurance. He probably thinks Wilson's not aware of it when he makes a decision and either draws near or pours a drink.

That's how it's been, or how it was until he'd hit House and knocked all those needy, careful touches right out of him. The distance returned, and Wilson had to realize that he'd been lying to himself, pretending to indulge House. He'd been beaten and violated, broken, sedated, sliced open and stitched back together.  He'd _wanted_ the touch of a friend. He had needed, still needs, some kind of contact that involves neither pain nor pity. From someone who's not getting paid to be there, and who doesn't want gratitude or sex or anything except permission.

Only one person fits that description, and Wilson punched him in the mouth.

Now they've had this second fight and House has lost again, because he couldn't answer the questions. He didn't know what he'd expected Georgie Reno to do. He didn't know what made him think his own death would be no great loss. He'd stood there hunched at the shoulders, trying to make himself into a smaller target, waiting for a chance to run.

Wilson hadn't given him one. It'd been four days since that punch, and House had been making cautious arcs around him, keeping himself safely out of reach, and it was wrong. It was _wrong_ , and only one of them could fix it. So Wilson had let his anger fall away like a heavy coat, and stepped forward, stretching out a hand when House could not.

_It worked_ , he thinks, and smiles a little over his mug of Dos Equis. House had been right; it hadn't mattered where they went. Still, House's choice had been just the thing. The Casa de Guerrero is all dark brown walls, dim lamps and neon signs, scuffed tile, smoke. Full of chatter and old rock songs and people who won't stare too long at a cripple and a guy with a smashed-up face. Pool playing had been out of the question, but Wilson had found himself surprisingly good at right-handed darts. Good enough, in fact, to best House's left-handed efforts; the beer tastes that much better because House had to buy. It was the agreed-upon prize for the winner of the Special Dart Olympics.

House perches like a vulture on the barstool to Wilson's right, grumbling that the jukebox lacks his favorite Van Halen number, but Wilson's not listening. He's noticing that House is sitting where he belongs, close at hand, leaning in to be heard above the racket.

They stay, enjoying their drinks and the parade of colorful, sad humanity, until someone flips the channel on the TV behind the bar. There's a dirt track, a dozen horses running headlong down the stretch.

"I think that's our cue," says House, laying down a twenty to cover their bill. It soaks up the rings of water on the counter, while House makes a one-legged hop off the barstool, balancing himself with a hand on Wilson's back.

They go home.


	84. Aftershocks 42.1: Smoke Signals

**TITLE:** Aftershocks: A Story in Shattered Pieces  
 **SUMMARY:** Wilson finds his own ways to communicate.  So does House. **  
** **CHARACTERS:** Wilson, House **  
RATING:** R for language and themes (gen fic).  
 **WARNINGS:** Details the aftermath of events in [_Bad Company_](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1), a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **NOTES:** The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in [Bad Company](http://black-cigarette.livejournal.com/7435.html#cutid1); the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.

 

**Smoke Signals**

 

 

That business card has lain on the bedside table for three weeks now, and it's stained with strawberry smoothie, but still perfectly legible.

House is pretending to watch TV and not to notice that Wilson's idly turning the thing over and over in his hand. Wilson wonders whether House thinks that he's really that oblivious, that he doesn't know he's being watched with intense and anxious interest.

House had handed over the card with obvious reluctance. Fear. "Cuddy," was all he had said, and nothing else had been needed. Wilson had looked it over, set it down, and composed a slow, one-handed email:

_lisa,_

_got psych card from house. thanks for your concern. i will think about it._

_jw_

And he has thought about it, often. He has thought about the pressure to tell everything, to spill it all to a professional who's paid by the hour. He's thought about telling this _woman_ all that happened, and he has discovered that the idea makes his head ache. 

Wilson has met Elizabeth Simonds and he does not like her, but that's only part of the problem. Even if she's perfectly nice, she's yet one more perfectly nice stranger who wants to help him. Wilson can't tolerate any more of those. He's had his fill.

At last he fully understands why Eve rejected the qualified counselor and insisted on talking to House. Psychiatrists know what they're trained to know. House knows how it _feels_ , what it is to live with an ache that never leaves. He projects that knowledge constantly; he always has, well before there was a cane and a bottle of pills.

House is a lousy therapist, of course. He's making himself look away, sitting far too still, thinking he's going to hide the hurt and fear that he's never been able to hide. If asked, he would say nothing's wrong.

Wilson would still much rather be here, in the living room of Denial himself, than in the office of any counselor. House is the devil he knows, the one who won't screw him up worse than he already is.

Someday, Wilson knows he will be strong enough to deal with counseling. He needs it, and he probably needs Wellbutrin. He'll deal with that whole mess later. At the moment, ironically, he's too badly hurt. He can't let someone else root around in his head. Can't let one more pair of clinical hands strip him down, assess the damage, try to _fix_ him.

He fears the same thing House does. It was all there in House's eyes and in his posture, in the moment when he first handed over the card. House would have already imagined the shrink patiently telling Wilson, _You've got to get out of that destructive relationship. Doctor House is not the kind of 'friend' you need._

Wilson has imagined it, too. He's too weak to hear that right now, too fragile to guard his own judgment against a professional opinion. House knows this; what he doesn't seem to know is that he's _precisely_ the friend Wilson needs. He's the friend who understands just what happened and why. The one who knows how to take him in, surround him in pillows and quilts, and show not a shred of pity.

Someday, Wilson will be strong enough to dismiss anyone who tries to pull him away from House. He'll take the gamble on counseling then, when he can afford to do so.

Today is not that day, and neither is tomorrow. It's going to be a while.

Wilson gets up, the card still held between his fingers, and plucks two of his favorite comedies from the nearby DVD shelf. Those are for later in the evening; they're the variety of psychological help Wilson prefers right now. He sets the movies on the coffee table, merely glancing at House as he does so.

House is no longer pretending disinterest, but is openly watching every move Wilson makes; it's really quite amusing. Wilson keeps his expression carefully blank, gives nothing away. He makes his way toward the phone. With every step, he's aware of the increasing tension radiating from House. The phone, however, is not what Wilson wants. House has left his jacket slung across the kitchen counter _next to_ the phone, and what Wilson wants is -- _this_. He fishes in the left jacket pocket and brings forth a cheap Bic lighter.

He's not wearing the sling at the moment -- Tomlinson's orders were to start spending some time out of it each day, exercising the shoulder joint -- but he's still only got one good hand. For what he wants to do, he'll need a volunteer from the audience.

Wilson holds the lighter and the card aloft, and aims a pointed look (a faint smirk, a raised eyebrow) at House, who is still on the sofa. Then he turns away and steps toward the kitchen sink, listening to the hasty shuffle of House's approach. He presents the lighter and House snatches it eagerly, flicking it into life. He's broadcasting his relief so powerfully that Wilson thinks _human radio tower_. Carefully, Wilson pinches one corner of the business card and holds it above the sink.

The little flame reflects in House's eyes as the card burns and curls and drops into the basin.

 

* * *

The last wisp of smoke rises; House puffs at it, blowing it into nothingness. Neither of them seems in a hurry to move. They stand there in the gloom, letting the evening light slip away from the window.

Wilson starts to turn away from the sink -- and feels a hand catch the sleeve of his shirt. Blinking, he turns in the other direction instead.

House says nothing. He stares like he's reading an x-ray, pulls Wilson's sleeve again, harder, and then his arms are around Wilson's sides, around his back. 

Wilson does not question what this means, because he knows. He folds his own arms around House and stays that way, with his cracked ribs hurting a bit and House's chin hooked over his shoulder. 

It's the safest feeling Wilson's had since that first, terrible day. He'll stay like this for as long as House is willing.

 


	85. Aftershocks 44.1: A Pleasure Suspended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's time for an experiment.

**A Pleasure Suspended**

 

Wilson sits on the toilet, his towel falling from its wrap to drape loosely over his thighs. He braces both elbows on his knees and revels in the fact that he doesn't need the damn shower sling anymore. Instead, he regards his newest molded plastic hand brace curiously.

Tomlinson has been putting his left hand in different custom-molded braces for weeks now. She'd said it was to improve his chances at regaining full range of motion with his fingers. This new one is comfortable, but for the first time Wilson wonders what the techs were thinking when they molded it.

His fingers and thumb are curled gently inwards, resulting in a loose fist. A ... potentially _lewd_ loose fist, if one looks at it from the right angle.

When he'd burned the therapist's card, he had expected to feel ... something. Less directionless, maybe, or _healed_ , somehow. Instead he's felt ... not much. He rubs at his lips and frowns, thinking that maybe it's time for an experiment.

Wilson has tried masturbating with his right hand a few times in his life, and they had almost always been unsatisfactory experiences. Lately, he'd had no desire to even try, let alone try right-handed. But now ...

The plastic brace is smooth, but not the kind of smooth that will easily glide over skin. He needs something to go between — a washcloth? Too rough. Wilson grins when his eyes light on the shower sling, hanging on the back of the door. Perfect, so long as he doesn't _look_ at the damned thing.

After a moment he's settled back on the toilet seat, spandex in place and ready to start. He leans back against the tank and looks up at the ceiling so he doesn't have to see that awful fabric.

He tries rubbing gently at first, just to see if the physical stimulation will be enough. When that doesn't get a response, he starts calling up some of his favorite fantasies: his first wife, Samantha, with her long blonde hair and naughty outfits. Cuddy, in nothing but her fuck-me shoes. Aeryn Sun, with leather and guns and growling orders in his ear.

This is working — he's swelling, growing into the space created by the curl of his braced fingers, responding as always. He smiles, half in pleasure and half in relief. In his mind Sam kneels in front of him, her hair brushing his knees as she moves to wrap her full lips around him. He closes his eyes and sighs.

The darkness takes him.

Suddenly it isn't Samantha kneeling in front of him; he can't see but he knows she's gone, replaced by someone _else_. He can't see but maybe he catches a flash of colorless silver eyes looking up at him through the blackness. He hears nothing but his own ragged breath; tastes blood and silk and feels an encouraging little pat on the hip.

He swallows hard, swallowing a scream, as he sits forward and opens his eyes. The budding erection is gone. He throws the sling in the corner and drops his head against his hands. He doesn't know how long he sits, trembling, staring at the bathroom floor.

 _If ever you were going to let yourself cry, Jimmy,_ he thinks, _now would be a good time.  
_


	86. Aftershocks 45.1: Lock and Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders where he fits now.

**Lock and Key**

 

Now that he looks something like himself, it's actually worse in a way.

People are more prone to stare at him. Who knows why; maybe he looks well enough that they no longer turn away in shock. He insists upon going in through the front door of the hospital anyway, chin up, his eyes daring them to either ask their questions or stop looking. 

It's only some of the younger kids who're bold enough to ask what happened to him, and he smiles and tells them he was in an accident but that he's getting better. 

Today he doesn't see any kids on his way to his appointment with Tomlinson. He's here on his own for the first time, having driven himself. It felt strange, freeing, a little weird after so long. He'd had to readjust the seat of the car, which had been pushed backward to make room for House's absurdly long legs. The rear view mirror was shifted too, showing Wilson nothing but the car's back seat.

For a moment he had looked into that mirror at just the right angle, so that all he saw was his eyes, and he'd imagined that he was still the same man he'd been the last time he'd driven his car. But then he had to put both hands on the wheel, and the left hand was all metal and blue plastic with just a few fingers sticking out, and the illusion was gone.

 

* * *

The first stop is Radiology. 

Wilson imagines that his hand ought to glow in the dark, as many x-rays as they've done on it. He puts the lead apron on and thinks that by now, he should have his very own one of these, emblazoned with his name. What with the hand films and all the ones for his jaw and his clavicle -- he just hopes he won't wind up _needing_ an oncologist, instead of _being_ one.

 _Oh, shut up,_ says an irritated voice in his head, as he aligns his hand on the grid beneath the lens. _You're not usually so damn morose about this. Of course you've usually got House around, being morose for you so that you can skip it and go straight to the sarcasm._

 _Are you always this mean?_ he asks that voice in return.

 _No. Just when I'm about to get dosed with yet more radiation for something that was never my fucking fault to begin with. You try it. Oh, wait, you already are_.

Some people just talk to themselves. Wilson actually fights with himself, more often than he'd care to admit. It keeps him from saying cruel things to unsuspecting radiology techs, or pharmacists, or slow old women in the supermarket aisles.

The shot of his hand is done. Wilson sighs, knowing what comes next. He sheds the apron and then -- carefully -- the soft t-shirt he's wearing. He always dresses like this when he comes in, because the tee is easy to pull off and put back on again.

He's got a new tech today. She stops for a moment, blinking in astonishment as they all do the first time they see his bare torso. They call it a splenectomy scar but the truth is it's much more than that. The surgeons had needed access to every internal organ and they hadn't had time to be delicate about it. The scalpel track starts just below the solar plexus and goes all the way down the length of his groin, stopping just a couple inches above his penis. It's hideous. 

The tech can't see all of it (since Wilson can leave his pants on) but the big scar alone isn't what's so shocking.  There are two smaller incisions over his rib cage, where Tomlinson put the u-plates in so that he could breathe again. And then -- then there are the _bruises_.

People think of bruises as things that go away in a week, maybe two. That's how it works when you bang your leg on the coffee table. That's _not_ how it works when a bunch of booted thugs drop you on the ground and kick you like they're trying to make a fucking field goal. The torn muscle fibers and ruptured blood vessels form inflamed knots, tender lumps that will linger for months. There are discolored goose-eggs all over his body, but he's done being embarrassed about it, at least here in the hospital. 

"It was no fun," he says to the tech, startling her out of her inventory of his injuries. "We'll leave it at that, shall we?" He smiles so that she knows he won't hurt her and won't discuss it.  She has to help him tie the apron in place again, this time around his waist.  Neither one says another word as they get on with taking the x-ray.

 

* * *

When they're finished, he slips back into his shirt, fastens the splint back in place on his hand, and heads for the cafeteria to get ... a lousy bowl of tomato soup. It's the only thing they've got that will serve as a snack -- and a way to pass the time until his next appointment -- for a guy with his jaw wired shut. 

He's just had that x-rayed as well. The wires are supposed to come out on Monday morning, if he's healed enough. They'll do it while Wilson's already knocked out for the surgery to rebuild his nose.

That was House's idea. He does have good ones, sometimes.

Wilson's collarbone is aching, and he rubs it while he stands in the cafeteria line. He'll be back in the sling for a few hours once he gets home, but for now he's glad to be free, able to balance his tray with his right hand and left forearm. 

The table he chooses is in the corner, and he sits with his back toward the wall. He must be projecting _please don't talk to me_ , because no one does.

Maybe they don't know what to say to a guy who's got a straw stuck into a bowl of tomato soup.  
_  
You could page House. He's never at a loss for words._

Wilson snorts at himself, at his own stupid thoughts. _What, you're lonely now? Grow up. Gonna be on your own again sooner or later._  
  
He sighs, wishing he had thought to buy a newspaper so that he'd have something to look at other than all these people.

Finally, he glances at his watch and decides to see if Tomlinson will mind if he's a few minutes early. He's still hungry but he leaves the soup, half-eaten and stone cold.

 

* * *

Wilson walks into Tomlinson's office and settles into one of her large and wonderfully comfortable chairs. She sees him here instead of in an exam room, and he's thankful for that. 

Pulling out his cell phone and pager, he turns both of them off. House knows about this appointment and Wilson doesn't want him interrupting it. Tomlinson is patient about such things, but she shouldn't have to be. 

He'd have just left the phone and pager at home, had he not wondered what would happen if he were to see a tall blond man in the parking garage, or following him on the street. Martin's made no appearances since that incident with the mail slot, but they don't know where he is.

Tomlinson looks at the x-ray, nodding, noting another couple of fibrous adhesions that will have to be addressed.  Each surgery is less invasive than the last. Each week, old pains subside and new ones emerge.

He unfastens the velcro closures on the splint and it falls open like a clamshell, revealing the moist pink skin inside. For one surreal second his mind wonders, _Where's my pearl?_ and then he shoves the bizarre thought aside and flexes one finger at a time, at Tomlinson's command. They're weak and they're stiff and the middle one hurts like hell today, but they're still a lot better than they were.

The external scarring, strangely enough, is not that bad. Hands heal differently than abdomens, it seems. 

 

* * *

He walks out of Tomlinson's office carrying a small sheaf of papers: exercise diagrams for his hand and his shoulder. 

His lower back is throbbing with a dull and growing ache, the immediate reaction to the cortisone injection she gave him. It'll reduce the inflammation and pain from those chipped vertebrae, but not right this instant. That relief will arrive sometime overnight. 

It's two in the afternoon and James Wilson stands in the hallway of his workplace with nothing to do. The thought of going home, walking into the empty apartment, makes his whole body tighten in resistance. 

 _What's the problem?_ he asks himself, and the answer he gets is not in words. It's the image of a pink paper on the floor, the feeling of not knowing who might have gotten there first. 

It's the idea of the future. Eventually he'll have to go home to yet another new apartment, living by himself with only the TV and stereo to break the silence. He can't stay where he is indefinitely, with no room of his own and no privacy, but what will happen when he leaves?

Maybe he won't talk to Dr. Simonds, but he's going to have to talk to _someone_ because he's too messed up to cope. When _House_ is the only safety net he's got, something has to be wrong. He'll talk to someone, but not today.

Wilson breaks out of his thoughts to find himself in the elevator, pushing the button for the fourth floor. He doesn't even remember having stepped inside.

 

* * *

He hasn't been up here since That Day, and the first thing he notices is that this floor has a distinct scent about it, dry and clean but somehow lacking the sharp edge of the air on the floors below. Perhaps it gets mellowed a bit by all the coffee they brew in Diagnostics.

House is not the reason Wilson's here, though. He just needs to know it still really exists, and that he can still exist here -- that he won't fall right through the floor, or become suddenly invisible, an ineffectual ghost wandering from room to room, touching nothing. 

He puts his hand on the wall and he knows why House is this way, how it feels to need _proof_ of even the most absurdly mundane things. The wall is solid and cool against his warm skin, reassuring. When he steps away, he wishes he were in his old shoes, the ones that tapped quietly on the tile. The ones that he's not wearing now because it hurts too much to bend and tie the laces. He'll get back to those, too, eventually.

The door of his office is shut and locked, and the pretty gold letters are just as they were.

 _My name is still here_. There's an astonishing amount of relief in that thought.

 _Did you think it wouldn't be?_ asks that other side of himself, in a tone that, for once, does not suggest that he's a moron.

 _I ... it had occurred to me. House might not have known how to tell me if the board had ..._ He can't finish that thought, not even when talking to himself. It's too painful. __  
  
_If they'd gotten rid of you, they'd have had to admit that they're all lousy, heartless excuses for humanity. Besides, Cuddy would have told you, even if House didn't._  
  
Wilson has to concede that point. He is probably, at least in this respect, safe. That is provided he can get back on that horse when they let him try. 

"I have your key," says a loud voice right beside him, causing Wilson to startle sideways like a crab. How the hell did House get right _there!?_

"You bast'rd! Don' _do_ that t'me!" Wilson leans on the wall, takes a breath and waits for his heart to stop racing.

"I didn't _do_ anything," House insists, rolling his eyes. "Where was your brain? Tahiti?"

"Maui."

"Send it back. You'll never miss it." House is reaching for the doorknob, sliding the key into place.

"Don't."

House looks at him like he's crazy, but stops and puts the key back in his pocket. Maybe Wilson _is_ a little crazy, but he's not ready to step into that office yet. He's gone far enough today.

"I was jus' comin' to get coffee," he lies, and then thinks that it might actually be true. His own mind makes him dizzy at times; he's perfectly happy to abandon his thoughts, turn and fall into step beside House. 

It doesn't matter so much that his back is killing him, or that his shoulder is crying out for the stability of the sling. If it gets bad enough he'll try poking one of House's Vicodin through the gap in his teeth and washing it down with coffee. He'll be all right.

He'll stay here a while, he'll talk with House and Kids about their latest case, and at the end of the day he'll go see Cuddy. 

They need to start talking about work.


	87. Aftershocks 45.2: Free at Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, surprises are welcome.

****Free at Last** **

****

 

****The pot is full of fresh coffee, almost as if House has been expecting him.

The coffee can't be for House's team; they're nowhere to be seen. Wilson doesn't ask where they are, because he doesn't care. He pours a big mug and settles into House's Eames chair with a heavy groan. The coffee's good, but it's hard to enjoy when his back and his collarbone are throbbing harder with each minute that passes.

He really _will_ have to try choking down one of House's Vicodin, if this keeps up.

House turns a grim face toward him. "You shouldn't have turned off your pager," he says.

"You knew 'ere I was."

"Sandoval didn't. He called me, looking for you," says House. "He got the films of your jaw."  
  
"And?" Wilson's stomach lurches. How had he forgotten about that? He sets the coffee between his knees, bracing himself.  
  
"I was wondering whether to tell you. I kinda liked this new improved version." House does a perfectly obnoxious TV announcer voice: " _Wired_ Wilson! **Now** only **half** as annoying!"  He's smiling, the jerk.   
  
" _Housh!_ "  
  
"Ditch the elastics."  
  
" _Sand'val_ said that?"  
  
"Am I not allowed to paraphrase? He also said to take a pill, 'cause it's gonna hurt like a bitch. Paraphrasing again, but ..."  
   
House holds out a little pair of gleaming silver nippers. He's been _planning_ this, apparently.

Wilson didn't know he could move this fast while in this kind of pain. He's out of the chair with hardly a second thought, almost spilling the coffee as he thrusts it into House's hand and grabs the nippers instead. There's a mirror in the mens' room, and he can't get there fast enough.

The last thing he hears on his mad, painful dash out the door is House's low chuckle behind him.  



	88. Aftershocks 45.3: Lifeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody's going to give him his life back. He'll have to take it.

**Lifeline**

 

It's the music that begins to pull Wilson out of his deep sleep.

They'd gotten home around 3, and he'd been moving so slowly, his back aching, his collarbone throbbing, his jaw feeling like someone had smacked him in the face with an aluminum baseball bat. At the hospital, House had simply taken his car keys away from him, and Wilson had had neither the strength nor the desire to try and get them back.

He'd felt almost as bad as the very first time Jerry had helped him out of bed in the hospital, hauled him up like a little kid, and gently set him on his feet. Now he's back in a hospital bed, drugged and helpless by whatever House had quickly mixed up and shoved into his hand.

Wilson turns his head a little but doesn't move otherwise. He doesn't know what time it is, and there's no clock within his direct line of sight. From the shadows he guesses it's around six -- as the season has begun its slow change they've been getting longer, but the daytime temperatures haven't abated yet. Still, it's pleasantly cool in the apartment, and there's that music, someone playing a piano ...

 _House,_ he thinks, and smiles just a little, and doesn't it feel good to just _smile_ with clean lips, lips that aren't coated with too-slick petroleum crap from a tube. He tries to open his mouth a little, to ask House what he's playing, but his jaw advises him otherwise and so he lies quietly, letting the music wash over him.

Whatever it is, it's beautifully structured, an architecturally perfect piece of music, that builds note upon note in a gorgeous, soaring expanse of sound. Sometimes House plays Chopin, or Debussy, or a playful, syncopated ragtime, but this sounds older, much older. The notes climb and double back, layering onto themselves in a dense, mathematical proof. Bach. Something from _The Well-Tempered Clavier_ , or one of the _Goldberg Variations_. He frowns a little -- it seems like it's been a long time since House has played, not since ...

He turns his face into the pillow then, to stifle the tears that threaten to overtake him, and simply allows the music to bear him away.

It makes the bed seem to tilt gently, shift, float around -- something like the way it will seem to do when you go to sleep after having been out on a boat for several hours. He's drifting, not really awake but aware of where he is and still feeling that very interesting sensation, and it doesn't hurt and he would like it to continue for a while.

* * *

When James Wilson was seven, he helped his dad and his older brother build a treehouse in the big old oak in their backyard. That had been back when everything was still "normal," before it all broke down and no one had dared put it back together.

They'd pretended the floor of the treehouse was the deck of a pirate ship, a ship that rode the wind-swayed trunk of the great oak. The neighbor's house was Hispaniola, the mailman's little truck a merchant vessel ripe for plunder. One of the raw pine floorboards stuck out more than the others (James's father had forgotten to saw this one to match) and this became their "plank" that enemy sailors and fair maidens (like Teresa Firenze from down the street) were forced to walk.

Their prisoners never fell, though -- at the end of the plank, tied securely to a strong branch overhead, was a thick rope, and when the condemned got to the end of the plank, they grabbed onto the rope and swung out, out, with a wild whoop of triumph and joy bursting from their lungs. Then they'd swing back towards the "ship," still kicking and howling, and James's brother would gather them in because he was the biggest, strongest kid up there.

It's what he remembers now -- the feeling of swinging out into space, the utter freedom of it, and he wants to cry for all the lost boys and lost brothers who never found their way back home.

He won't do it. The music is beginning to frighten him, with its relentless logic, its inexorable progression. It's getting to him, weird as that is, and the last thing he really wants is to break in front of House for this, to start sobbing over a little bit of music, for God's sake. That's not who he was before all this started, and it's sure as hell not who he is now.

No one's going to give him his life back -- he has to take it.

He swings out again, wide and free over the boundless ocean, and for a moment it seems to beckon to him, calling him home.

 _What if I fall?_ he thinks. _What if I let go?_

And then he's hauled back, safe now, shifts on the bed and opens his eyes to ... blue eyes. Not his older brother's pale, ice-blue eyes, but eyes the color of the sea, of uncharted possibilities.

"Hey," House says. "Thought you'd never wake up."


	89. Aftershocks 47.1: Six Burners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carving out a little more space.

**Six Burners**

 

The fact that the person standing on his doorstep is short – five-two at the most – is the only thing that keeps House from swinging his cane in that first second. “Who the hell are you?” he yells, stepping into the foyer from outside and slamming the door as adrenaline tickles under his skin.

The person jumps and then whirls around, barely managing to hold onto the box in her arms. “Oh, Mr. House,” she says, and House’s memory catches up – his mail carrier, this is his mail carrier. Doris or Delores or Melba or something.

“You scared me,” she accuses with a frown, scolding him as if he’s a child. After the day he's had, with his patient and his fellows and the frigging medical record auditor, House has had enough, and he considers swinging the cane anyway. He wouldn’t mind the assault charge, but tampering with the mail’s a federal offense, so he gives up the idea.

Shouldering her out of the way, he opens his front door. She’s opening up her silver-frosted lips to bitch again, when he snatches the box away and steps into the apartment.

“Your friend Mr. Wilson,” she begins, as the door is already closing. What does she know? News? Gossip? He lifts a hand to stop the door, turning back to see her face, when she finishes, “... is much nicer than you!”

The slam of the door right in her face is very satisfying.

In the kitchen he drops the box on the island and pokes through the refrigerator for any easy-to-nuke leftovers. He’s starving – four in the afternoon, skipped lunch – and that bastard Wilson is gallivanting about somewhere. Didn’t even tell House where, just “Don’t wait up.” He’s been like a damn teenager since he was cleared to drive.

House ignores the flutter in his guts and the whispers of worry in the back of his mind. Stupid.

As he shovels some stew-like-thing into his mouth, he regards the box. It’s for Wilson, from something called MaxiAids. It reminds him of that MegaDik spam that’s been going around. “Gush,” he quotes out loud, as he slices through the tape with one of the kitchen knives, “your penis is so small.”

The thought of Wilson, shamefaced and stammering, ordering a device in hopes of eking out a few more inches is the most hilarious thing ever, until House pulls out the paper at the top of the box and finds out that Chase and Foreman sent this as a gift. Bits of food spray all over the island as he desperately attempts not to choke from his laughter. 

After that build-up, he’s hoping for tubes and springs and an AC adapter, but the box disappoints. It holds only a can opener, a couple of funky spatulas, a twelve-inch metal ring with a tall M-shape welded to the front of it, a rounded knife with wooden T handle that he’s pretty sure Xena used in a few of her adventures, and a cutting board with a couple of spikes sticking out.

“Make working in your kitchen safer, neater and more enjoyable with these tools designed for people with lower mobility,” reads the enclosed flyer.

Not a penis enlarger, then – an ego enlarger. Wilson’s been getting back in the kitchen more and more but hasn’t been happy with what he’s produced. Can’t have canned soup and sandwiches like a mere mortal, no. There’s got to be a million ingredients and two million steps and raw vegetables and fresh herbs, and House can’t help – even if he was inclined – because he **_does everything wrong, and oh my God just get out of the damn kitchen_**. 

The enamel by the main switch on the big Waring blender is chipped a little.

House finishes off his food and then dumps the container in the sink. Washing dishes is good for increasing flexibility and range of motion, or so he’s heard.

The answering machine is flashing, so House hits the button. “James, it’s so great to hear from you!” The voice is a woman’s, excited but breathy, with a little bit of hesitancy that seems ingrained. It’s vaguely familiar but not in any interesting sort of way, and House floats back toward the box. “I can’t wait to meet up. You sound like you know exactly what you want, and I’d love to be the one to show it to you. Or if you don’t like what I’ve got, one of the other women here is sure to have just what you need. See you tomorrow!”

 _When did Wilson meet a whore?_ is House’s first thought. _Must’ve taken the number from my Rolodex_ , is his second, because otherwise he has no idea why the woman sounded familiar. He could rewind the message, listen to it again, try to piece it together, but he only likes _interesting_ puzzles.

It’s been a while for Wilson, as far as House knows, and if he wants to hire an escort, that’s probably his safest bet. No strings, no expectations, get what you need and go home. Or if you’re already home, kick the escort out.

He’s wondering idly how many hookers can say they’ve done it on a hospital bed, when he walks out of the kitchen and sees the thing itself still sitting in the middle of the living room. By this point, he's used to it; he hardly ever notices it when it’s empty, like now. 

Except, he realizes as he sits on it to rest his leg, it’s not entirely empty. Wilson has left a bunch of crap strewn across it – newspapers mostly, a couple of stapled paper packets, and one of those free guides you can pick up at any grocery store. A real estate guide.

Of course. Of course. Wilson leaving had to happen at some point. Not _leaving_ leaving; too much under the bridge for that. If Wilson hasn’t shoved House out of his life by now, he’s never going to. Probably. But they’re on top of each other here in the apartment, and Wilson’s getting better every day, and it was inevitable he would want to move on. Um, move _out_.

One of the stapled packets has a card from a local realty company attached, and the agent’s name is… Bonnie Wilson. _That’s_ who was on the answering machine – wife number two. House hadn’t realized she was selling real estate, but then again yesterday he would’ve been hard pressed to remember her name if anyone had asked.

His fingers and the back of his neck feel strangely cold, like there’s a draft somewhere. A shower’d be good to warm up, he decides. Might ease some of the ache in his thigh, too.

He’s prepared to fling the monstrosity that is Wilson’s shower sling out into the hall, but it isn’t hanging over the rod. Actually, he realizes, he hasn’t seen it for a while. Wilson probably folded it neatly and stuck it in a drawer because he doesn’t need it any more.

The shower is as hot as House can stand, and still he feels a little chilled. He stands in the steam until the feeling goes away. By then his skin is a tender pink and his gas bill’s probably through the roof, but at least he’s not cold. Leg still hurts, though.

Sweatpants and a sweatshirt – he’s always wanted a “Pimps” tracksuit like Kevin Federline wore at his wedding, but has never bothered to go out and look – and a towel drawn across his hair, and he’s ready for some intense television watching. Early evening is the best time for syndicated fare.

He’s caught up in the pros and cons of _Divorce Court_ vs. _Jeopardy_ and doesn’t notice Wilson on the couch until he’s almost sitting on him.

“Christ!” Wilson yells, his fork clanking against the plate on his lap. His look changes from surprise to consternation, and he shoves at House’s hip. “I’m sitting here.”

“And why are you sitting there?” House snaps. He takes a step back, just enough to get room to gesture as widely as he wants. “That’s _my_ cushion, my couch. You’ve got your own place to sit, which is taking up half my living room, by the way. Get over there.”

“I’m sick of sitting on that damn bed. I’m going to sit on the couch like a normal person, and eat my dinner. Well, I guess a _normal_ person would have a dining room table he could sit at, but let’s just go with what passes for normal around here.” Wilson glares at him in a half-annoyed, half-confused, all-exasperated expression. House really isn’t in the mood for a Wilson Supreme at the moment.

“You’ll have a _normal_ table in a _normal_ dining room in a _normal_ apartment soon enough. Spacious and tasteful and bland and beige, like every other place you’ve ever lived – until you marry the next aspiring interior decorator and give her a budget only slightly lower than the White House’s.” Turning his back on Wilson, House stalks to the piano bench, sits, and bends low over the keys.

Wilson’s glaring at him again. Or still. House can’t see him, but he can feel the disapproval radiating. He puts his fingers on the piano keys but can’t think of anything he wants to play.

“You’re an idiot,” Wilson proclaims. _Flattery will get you nowhere._

A slightly crumpled page of newsprint appears in front of his face. “Yes, I’m planning to buy a condo. Now look at the places I circled,” Wilson says. “Look at them.”

House bats the annoyance away physically and verbally. “I get it; you want your own place, whatever.”

“I want my own _bed_ ,” Wilson says as he retreats across the room. “I don’t want to still be sleeping in our living room two months from now.”

“With your back, you’re going to need cripple bars in the bathtub; don’t forget that.”

“Did you listen to me?” There’s an _oomph_ and a plop; Wilson’s back on the couch. “No, of course, you didn’t; you never do. I said _our_ living room. Joint.”

House’s mind has gone blank; he presses middle C, then the F-sharp above it and the F-sharp below.

“You’re going to make me ask you?” Wilson continues. “Be that much of a bastard, to make me crawl to you, like a kid?”

Still blank. House turns in Wilson’s direction but can’t quite seem to look at his face.

“Fine,” Wilson says. “Fine. Hey, Greg, want to come have a sleepover at my new house? For, um, you know, ever? You can have my big brother’s room. He moved out, so you can decorate it whatever way you want. My mom’ll make us eggs and waffles every Sunday morning.”

House feels the twinges of a smile coming on. “Your mom would never make us waffles.”

“OK, I’ll make us waffles,” Wilson says indistinctly. He’s talking while he eats his food, which is gross. Once the novelty of chewing wears off, he’s really going to have to cut that out.

House gets up, shoves Wilson’s shoulder just for show, and takes a seat next to him on the couch. The remote’s right there, and he flicks on the TV. News, infomercial, news, Spanish game show, _Jeopardy_ , _Divorce Court_. He watches the histrionics while Wilson smacks and chomps like a cow with a cud.

“You didn’t really have to ask,” House says at the next commercial. “I would’ve figured it out eventually.”

“I don’t know,” Wilson says and burps. “You’re kind of stupid that way.”

“Hey, if you’re going to be _mean_ , then I don’t see why I should come have a sleepover.”

“Buttermilk waffles with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.”

“With real maple syrup and slab bacon?”

“Sure.”

“Cool.”

Wilson shoves the newspaper in House’s face again, and this time he takes it to review Wilson’s selections. Wilson’s sure to have thought of location, and convenience, and resale value, but probably not the real factors that go into picking a new place. Jacuzzis and where a giant TV could go and how pretty the neighbors are.

Speaking of… “Used-to-be-a-dude nurse is moving in with her six-fingered fiancé and selling her condo. We should go see that.”

Wilson looks up from _Divorce Court_ – he could probably narrate the show, with all his experience – and frowns slightly. “How many bedrooms does it have? Is it near the hospital? High-rise building or garden-style?”

“It’s a studio, and I don’t know the rest of that crap.”

The frown deepens. “Once again with the not listening. I _said_ I don’t want to sleep in the living room, and where would you –”

“I said _see_ it, not buy it. When are we going to get the chance to poke around in an apartment like hers again? Before and after sex toys, awesome.” House doesn’t even try to keep the grin from his face.

Wilson rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the TV. “You realize if we look at a studio, people are going to assume we’re together.” House can hear the air quotes.

“We’re middle-aged men moving in with each other. People are going to assume it no matter how big a place we get. If that bothers you, we’ll have to re-think it.”

Wilson shrugs. “I’m not in the mood to date now, anyway.”

“And hookers don’t care,” House agrees. He waits a minute, then continues, “One little bit of it bugs me, though. That people will think –”

“I can’t do better than you,” he and Wilson say together.

Over the long weeks of Wilson’s jaw being wired shut, House had almost forgotten how broad his smile could be.


	90. Aftershocks 48.1: Sustenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a carefully measured decision.

**Sustenance  
**

 

The new knife fits perfectly into the palm of his injured hand, rocking smoothly back and forth as Wilson chops vegetables.

He loves this thing, even though House saw it and immediately began to quote Xena the Warrior Princess.

Well, not _quote_ exactly. What House did was make that ridiculous high-pitched battle cry, grab the knife and pretend to strut around in a leather bustier -- a mental image Wilson finds very funny and deeply disturbing.

He works quietly, accepting the soreness and the sharp twinges that come with the motion. His grip isn't what it should be, but it's improving. He can do this. 

Mushrooms, celery, onion, garlic. The evenings are getting cool and he wants slow-baked chicken with all these good things in the stuffing. _Lots_ of stuffing -- Wilson will need it, because his jaw is still so sore and weak that soft foods are all he can have. There'll be no gnawing of meat off the bones. He'll have to slice and mince his portion of the chicken, but that's all right. It's worth the effort. 

Anyway, he likes it in here. The kitchen is a place to focus, small and bright, warm and safe -- and when he's alone in the evening, as he is right now, that's what he wants the most.

Actually, what he wants the most is for House to get home.

It's hard to believe that their impending move is actually going to happen -- that House is willing to give up his familiar, comfy apartment. This old brick building has been House's refuge for so long that it fits him like his own skin. He rarely used to come to Wilson's other places and when he did he fidgeted and groused as if the carpet, the pale vanilla walls, the inoffensive furnishings were all sandpaper, rubbing him raw.

Wilson wonders what the new place will look like once House is done with it.  __

_It won't be like any other place I've lived._ Of course, that's kind of the point. 

He had expected House to think it over, groan and mutter about it for several days and _then_ say he'd do it or he wouldn't. House's easy acceptance had come as an enormous shock. A _welcome_ shock, yes, but could it really be as simple as, _Cool?_

 __It wasn't a decision Wilson made lightly, to invite House to live with him and, well, be House. With his silences and his music and his extremely questionable taste in television. Wilson had weighed it out very carefully -- more so, he thinks with a wry twist to his mouth, than he ever did for any of his marriages. It's definitely not going to be all sunshine and daisies.

He'll have to see it when House's pain is at its worst.

Pranks will be played. 

Tempers will flare and have to be soothed, and most of the time it will be Wilson doing the soothing.

House will push at him, seeping into every corner of his life. When Wilson finds a therapist, House will know. Any meds Wilson ends up taking, House will know. All the things he's been accustomed to hiding from House -- and Wilson himself had been startled to realize just how much he does hide -- will come out sooner or later. It has already begun.

 _And you know what?_ says that quiet little voice in his mind. _It's not that bad, is it?_

He gets the chicken out of the fridge, rinsing the cold flesh in the sink. The bird is plucked, bare, and has lost its head. 

"Know how ya feel," murmurs Wilson, and then bends at the knees (because his back won't cooperate) to get the roasting pan from the lower cabinet. 

It never was much of a pleasure, cooking just for himself. If he didn't know that someone else would be there to enjoy the results, he'd probably be living on microwave meals and other convenient junk. 

He lifts the cutting board with his right hand and uses the knife blade in his left, shoving all the chopped veggies off the end. They fall neatly into the waiting skillet, sizzling and popping a little as they hit the melted butter. The scent rises immediately, and Wilson smiles. He's glad he can smell at all. People with badly broken noses risk losing that sense, and some never regain it.

The bread crumbs go in next, pulsed to a fine shred in the blender, along with the sea salt, the sage and oregano. He shakes a little pepper into the mix -- he wishes he could grind the corns fresh, but the little mill is still just beyond his capabilities.

He pushes the vegetables around in the pan, cooking them just enough to blend their flavors, and adds chicken broth and a splash of white wine.

He stirs, turns the burner off (a gas range like this one will be an absolute necessity in their new place) and lets the stuffing set while he arranges the chicken in the baking pan. The bird's interior gapes open for all to see, evoking another ridiculous twinge of sympathy.

It's after seven, fully dark out, and it's getting hard to breathe in here, even with the scent of food filling the room.  Perhaps he should call House. He could find out how things are going with the patient, whose symptoms refuse to make even a little bit of sense -- yet. He could do that, but he won't. 

Instead of reaching for the phone, he spoons stuffing (awkwardly, carefully using his injured hand) into the chicken and around its sides, filling the pan completely.

People talk about depression, but he's never heard anyone describe what is happening to him. Nobody ever said, _Well, as long as it's daylight you might be able to distract yourself. You might even be more or less okay, but then at night it can seem like there's nothing solid in the universe_. Like the floor and the walls will dissolve away, leaving you stranded in space with nothing to hold onto.

Like you're going to fall down into your own well and never come up.

People talk about Prozac and counseling. Wilson figures he will need both, but suspects that the problem he has isn't the kind everyone else seems to recognize. They don't mention the physical chill that sets in right around sunset, the fear that won't go away even though he knows the worst is over. The way his chest constricts, the way he sometimes can't make himself give a damn about anything. The way he shivers.

These things hit him in waves, in cycles, up and down and sideways -- but the changes are slower and far less severe when House is around. That's the other thing nobody talks about -- the remarkable degree to which a single friend, another warm living presence, can keep the horrible darkness at bay. 

It's not like House is a genie; it's not like he can wave his magic cane and _Poof!_ _Everything's fine!_  

What House does is much more subtle, much more real. His movements, words, even his breaths all feel like strong threads that bind Wilson into reality, right here and now, where he can cope. House distracts him and helps him focus, makes him connect and helps him escape. 

There's no one else who can do that. No one else's mere presence would be enough to drive off the chills, to give Wilson's mind something to grasp before he falls any farther. House understands what it is to be in pain, depressed, afraid. He accepts it. He knows how to joke and play and be obnoxious instead of tiptoeing around trying not to say the wrong thing. Instead, he says the wrong thing on purpose, and Wilson smiles, or even laughs, in a way he could never do if he were alone.

House may not realize it, but every night he holds Wilson back from the edge of a terrifying chasm.

House probably thinks they're just watching TV.

Wilson opens the oven, enjoying the surge of dry heat that rushes outward and engulfs him. He balances the chicken dish carefully in his right hand and slides it onto the rack. This is going to be very, very good. 

 _I told you I wanted you to stay_ , House had said, back in a former life.

Apparently he'd meant it.

Now if only he'd hurry the hell up and get home.


	91. Aftershocks 49.1: The Many Unknowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still such a long way to go.

**The Many Unknowns  
**

The sound wakes him with a vicious jolt, like a cattle prod. Wilson's screaming. Another damn nightmare, most likely, but House doesn't _know_ , and even dreams can be dangerous. House is out of bed and down the hall with a speed that would be impressive for anyone, let alone a middle-aged cripple. His leg's instantly on fire but that can be dealt with in a minute.

"Wilson!"

Wilson doesn't answer. He's thrashing so hard that he's rattling the metal frame of his bed. Another inch and he's going to fall off the mattress, and if he breaks anything else -- any more bones --

" _Wilson!_ " He's at the bedside, clamping one hand on Wilson's shoulder and the other on his knee, trying to shove him back onto the bed before he tumbles over the side. Wilson has left the railing down, which is stupid, and this is _why_ it's stupid.

"NO!" yells Wilson, jerking away from House's grip. Then he's awake, gasping for air, his eyes and mouth open wide.

This sucks. It sucks because it's happening; it sucks because of the _reason_ it's happening; it sucks because House does not know how to make it stop. If anything it's worse now that Wilson can open his mouth, now that he can talk and scream in his sleep. Maybe it's worse because he's taking fewer painkillers, and his mind is more active in the night.

Maybe it's just worse because it's worse. Because Martin isn't something you recover from in a month or two, like a case of pneumonia. Martin's something you live with, the way you live with a ruined leg. And this -- _all_ of this, Wilson's injuries and his humor and his damn PTSD, House has chosen to live with. Indefinitely. Provided Wilson doesn't change his mind.

"Wilson. C'mon, reality check." Wilson sits up, whimpering a little as he bends forward. Chipped vertebrae are a whole world of pain, and they take forever to heal. "Screwed yourself up pretty bad, didn't you?"

Wilson moans a little in response, but it's his resigned moan, not his _Oh God something else is wrong with me_ noise. Which means this is nothing but severe soreness and muscle spasms, and that Wilson's all right. In a manner of speaking.

He watches Wilson forcing himself to breathe deeply, to calm down, and wonders how long it'll be before they know just how badly injured he really is. There are things that don't show up on any scan or test. There are things Martin likes to cut out of a person, and there's no telling how much he really took from Wilson. What will come back, and what won't. What parts may have been damaged beyond repair.

For a moment House wonders whether burning that shrink's card was the right thing to do. Maybe Dr. Simonds could have helped. House doubts it, though. What could she actually _do_ for Wilson? She'd probably give him books to read, journals to write, a list of _Twelve Steps to Becoming a Happier Torture Victim_. But the _first_ thing she'd do is tell Wilson to get the hell away from his worthless, destructive best friend.

House should encourage Wilson to go see her anyway, but he won't. He isn't noble, he isn't willing and Wilson didn't want to go in the first place. Had he wanted that, he'd have gone whether House liked it or not. There's got to be _someone_ , though, doesn't there? Some human being for Wilson to talk to. __  
  
Yeah, you idiot, replies House's brain. _Remember? You're not very human, but you're all he has._

"So." This is going to be unpleasant, but he _has_ to. "You gonna tell me what the hell that was?" He hopes Wilson won't, won't want to talk or won't remember. He hopes Wilson _will_ , because he wants to know what's happening, learn the symptoms, make a plan. A prognosis.

"Ever swallowed one of your own teeth?" Wilson asks. "I have. I thought it just happened again, only it was _all_ of them this time. All broken." His face contorts as he continues, panting, " _God_ , my back hurts."

House doesn't bother asking where Wilson was in the dream. He's become as familiar with that place as he is with his own bed. He knows it as well as he knows Wilson's office, or the clinic's exam rooms. Or that pretty sunlit meadow, the one no one else knows about because House has never, ever spoken of it.

"And my _leg_ ," grunts House, leaning heavily on his cane, "is telling me it wishes I'd just go ahead and cut it off. So which one of us is gonna go get the narcotics?"

Slowly, Wilson lowers his feet to the floor and leans forward to get up and --

He freezes, hissing and gasping, his eyes starting to glisten.

"Sit _down_ , you dope. What's the matter with you?" House didn't think that Wilson would really try to get up. Of course, this _is_ Wilson the Stupidly Selfless. House snorts at him and lurches into the kitchen, in no small amount of pain himself.

He likes that title he's just invented for Wilson, so he distracts himself from his angry leg by coming up with more of them. It's something to do while he performs the mindless routine of pills for himself and a potent oxy-cocktail for his patient. 

 _Sir James the Eternally Stressed. Wilson the Overly Wedded. His Lordship the Duke of Alimony. The First Earl of Pancake._ This is fun; he'll have to use these sometime. _Wilson the Always Annoyed_. No, that's not nearly clever enough. House glances into the living room, to the hunched figure on the bed, and tries again. _Wilson the Weirdly Innocent_ , says House's brain, and now the game isn't so funny anymore. House stops playing and makes his lopsided way back. He puts the drugged cup into Wilson's waiting hand, and settles himself on the sofa.

Wilson asks no questions. He takes what he's given, shuts his eyes and drinks. He could take pills now, but this works faster. 

In the darkened room, Wilson looks almost like his old self. The tilted cup momentarily hides his badly mangled nose. The surgery for that is in the morning.

The elastic bands that held Wilson's mouth shut have been gone for a few days now, but the lateral anchoring wires are still in place, drilled into the bone. The surgeon's going to remove those while Wilson's under anesthesia for the nose job. He hadn't planned to do it that way, but House had convinced him. Well, he'd convinced _Cuddy_ , and she'd talked to Doctor Know-it-all.

House has read all about the un-wiring procedure. It's very medieval, very painful. Pliers are involved. The guys who'd been through it said it felt like having your mouth attacked by a Weedeater. Wilson might have a hell of a flashback, and House doesn't doubt for a moment that he would hurt someone.

 _Wilson the Innocent_. He looks it right now. Strange thought, given that the guy's a habitual liar, an adulterer, and the friend of Gregory House. Wilson is, in some weird way, such an innocent soul. He never means any harm, so he hates to believe that anyone else does, either. Maybe that's why he can be so loyal to an angry jerk who breaks every damn thing he touches. Maybe it's one of the things House ... _enjoys_ about Wilson, who is so unlike him in that way.

House was innocent once, relatively speaking, and then Martin ... then there was that day. Wilson still doesn't know about that, but this is not the time to tell him. They've already missed too much sleep.

"You know the rest of the dream," Wilson says, quietly, as he puts down his cup. "You know what was happening." House does know, and even if he didn't, the violent struggle against invisible assailants would have told him. "So I won't bore you with it again."

"Jimmy --"

"I'm serious. I just ... I want to sleep. Soon as the drugs kick in." Wilson's not looking at him, because Wilson is -- ashamed? Yeah, that's what it is. Shame. Which is stupid. But it's after one in the morning, and the surgery's at nine. If Wilson wants to be dumb it'll take too long to talk him out of it. House huffs, pries himself up off the couch (those pills can kick in any time now, really), and goes back to his room without another word.

When he returns, carrying a pillow and blanket, the surprise on Wilson's face is almost enough to make up for the pain of the trek.

"Wake me up again," House grumbles, as he lies down on the sofa, "and I'll whack you with my cane."

But he won't. He won't, and they both know it.


	92. Aftershocks 53.1: Reconstruction, Part Two

**Reconstruction, Part Two**

 

"You want to see it, don't you?"

It's not really a question; it's more of a statement of resignation. It's been three days since the operation, and Wilson's face is swollen and bruised, all the way from the middle of his brows on down to his lip.

They're sitting on the sofa. House has got the cane standing upright on the floor, its tip between his feet. He's rolling the shaft between his two flattened hands, as if he were a Boy Scout trying to start a fire on the floorboards. _Well_ , thinks Wilson, _a Boy Scout wouldn't be trying to commit arson, but never mind that._

It's been like this ever since the surgery. House's hands begin moving every time he looks at Wilson. He toys with his cane, shoves his fists in his pockets, or absently rubs at his own face. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what's on his mind.

Wilson's nose is totally hidden by the splint and bandages. House hasn't taken a look at it, and he wants to, because he's got that insatiable, sick curiosity that makes him who he is.

Or maybe it's because he still wants to punish himself. Or maybe both. It's hard to tell. The thing that's clear is that House will fidget and stare and generally be annoying until he gets to _see_ , because he's permanently five years old and this is how his brain works: _Lemme see, lemme touch_. Wilson tries not to think too hard about the silent refrain of _Mine, mine, mine_ that goes along with that.

House scoots closer, leaning in. His gaze gets way more intent and he slowly raises a hand toward Wilson's face.

"Careful," says Wilson, shutting his eyes and bracing himself even as he leans back against the sofa cushions. House picks at the ends of the tape and then peels it away, gauze and splint and all, with careful, deliberate skill. When it's gone, Wilson opens his eyes.

He doesn't know what to expect; he's imagining that House will check out the incisions, note where the bones were shifted and re-set, gawk at the mosaic of bruises, and say something really juvenile. Such as, _Cool._

That's not what happens. House stares and raises his hand again, as if to trace the distorted lines of Wilson's face, but he stops. At last he lowers both his hand and his head, turning away. There's a long, still silence between them. It's been a while since House showed the signs of this weight he's bearing; he's been behaving more or less like himself for a couple weeks now. It's so easy to forget what else must be going on in there.

Because he has no idea what to say, Wilson simply waits. It's House who finally begins to speak, in a tone that wants so badly to be _normal_.

"Think you'll ever forgive me?"

The question makes Wilson blink, cocking his head as if he couldn't have heard that properly. "House ... what part of 'Let's be pathetic middle-aged roommates' didn't you understand?"

House shrugs, head bowed and hand picking at the corner of the sofa cushion. "You can live with someone without forgiving them. Because you're used to them, you know them. Because you need them." He stops talking for a moment, but he's still picking at the sofa, rubbing his nails along the edge, worrying it.

"Until you hit the tipping point," he says, "and the resentment outweighs everything else."

"House ..."

"I'm not asking you for anything. I just want to know if it's possible."

"You — you can't see that it's already happening?"

House stops his fidgeting and looks up, slowly. _How_ , Wilson wonders, _can House not know this by now?_

"I made the choice," Wilson says, "while I was still in the hospital."

"There's no way you're over it." 

"Yet."

"Don't." House has his head bowed, and is rubbing his hands over his face. He takes a breath and tries again, quietly. "I'm not your fiancee or your wife. Don't lie because you're lonely. Don't try to spare me."

"I'm not," Wilson replies. "Lying or lonely." He's matching his own soft tone to House's in the same way he matches House's stride. "They ... took me. They took something I'll never get back, because you were reckless and stupid. I hate it, and yeah, sometimes I'm furious with you, but you couldn't have known."  Wilson takes his time, considering his words carefully. "You didn't know, and I'm not willing to lose you."

House has gone quiet again and won't look at him. There's no telling if any of this is sinking in.

"Greg," Wilson says, and watches him flinch ever so slightly. Wilson knows that that name will strip away the last of House's armor, and that's what he wants. House raises his eyes to meet Wilson's.

"I _will_ ," Wilson tells him, "forgive all of it. Ask me."

House doesn't ask. He's not ready yet, but something else is moving close to the surface, like the shadowy shapes beneath thin ice. 

"I wanted to either kill Martin, or myself." House picks up his cane again and runs his fingers over its handle. "You came in, and—the only thing I could recognize was your hair." His face twists up and he leans his forehead on the curve of the stick. "So I tried to kill an EMT. They tell me it was because he complained about you breaking his nose, and I have to take their word because I don't remember what he said. I remember deciding to kill him, knocking him down, and then I was — "

He pauses, seeming to weigh his words before he goes on. "I don't know _where_ the hell I was. Out to lunch at the Sordid Past Cafe."

"What was on the menu?" Wilson asks, softly enough so that it's clear he isn't joking.

"Nothing you need to know about," House says, but his head is down again, his voice so low Wilson can barely hear him.

"Yeah, I do." He needs it the way he needed morphine and pins in his hand and those nights in the ICU. As usual, though, it seems Wilson will have to be first, to offer something in trade. He can do that, if that's what it takes.

"I couldn't see him at all," Wilson says, and at once House is looking right at him, trying to see _in_. "Pitch dark. It ... makes for some ... pretty weird flashbacks." He takes a quick breath, fighting the sick surge of panic that spreads outward from his gut. "I didn't even know which one. Who he was."

"I knew _who_ ," says House, and it sounds like he's confessing to a murder, "but not _what_ he was." He leans back, slouches into the cushions, squeezes his eyes shut. "It was sunny out and I saw every last _fucking_ detail. Which was just _peachy_ , you know, because now I can watch it over and over again. 3-D surround sound and everything."

"Where were you?"

"Near the creek. Off a little dirt road, about a mile north of my grandparents' house. There was a place, an old homestead that had burned down years before. The chimney was still there. A couple ruined walls. I used to pick up melted bottles and stuff, try to figure out what kind of people lived there." He pauses, and Wilson can't help the bit of warmth he feels at the thought of House, so young, working on a puzzle. "There were all these old broken bricks on the ground."

He glances over and sees that House is staring at the ceiling, waiting for the next words to come to him. They're taking their time. It's all right.

"I never thought of using one of those for a weapon. Martin was always so ... practical."

Wilson can almost feel the jagged texture and the grit against his skin. "He — he _hit_ you with that?"

"No." It takes another few seconds before House looks directly at him and finishes the thought. "He hit my friend."

It's like being punched in the stomach; Wilson can't seem to breathe. There's been no mention of a _friend_ before. So this, this recent horror, wasn't the first time that —

"Clocked him in the temple. So fast, I never saw it coming. Martin knew what he was doing, even then. Used an upward stroke." House gestures with his left hand, a swift glancing motion with his fingers wrapped around the phantom weapon. "Hit him at an angle so it broke the skin but not the bone." House slowly pulls himself upright and leans forward again, rubbing his fingers on the side of his head, as if he were the one who'd been wounded. "I didn't know what the hell was happening. Right up until then we'd all been hanging around just having fun. Me and Chris and my very _best_ friend. The guy who said he was my _brother_ , and I believed him."

The room spins around Wilson as his mind puts it together. _Mycroft_. Holmes' older brother. _He reminds everyone of me_ , House had said. Suddenly, so many things make sense, snapping into place like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. 

"You want the rest of this fairy tale?" asks House. "Get the scotch and two glasses."

He nods and gets up to do what House asks. It's good exercise for his weak left hand, carrying the half empty bottle. The glasses in his right hand rattle against one another as he sets them on the coffee table. It doesn't really matter that he's shaking; House has seen a hell of a lot worse. House pours liquor in both glasses and commands, "Drink."

Wilson's not supposed to do this, but he doesn't argue. House is right: this kind of thing requires alcohol. It's almost soothing, anyway, to sit for a minute and quietly share whiskey with House. Almost.

The first sip takes Wilson's breath away — it's been a while, and there's no ice to cut the smoky fire of House's good scotch. The heat burns a long, slow trace down Wilson's throat and into his stomach, where it ignites a steady, glowing pilot light.

He notes with a faint alarm that House has already drained more than half his own glass.

"The blow ... knocked Chris to his knees. Which is where he —" House takes a harsh breath, gulps down what's left in his glass and puts it down, only to pour himself a little more. He takes another swallow before he goes on. "You know how head wounds bleed. I _didn't_ know, then. I didn't — I couldn't move. I told him to stop, and the psycho bastard laughed at me. It was the first time I really thought about how much bigger he was than me. I knew I couldn't _make_ him stop."

House picks up the bottle and sloshes more whiskey into both their glasses. "I said _drink_. We're getting wasted. Just so you know."

"Right. I can do that." Getting wasted seems like a better idea with every passing moment. Wilson's recent abstinence will mean that it won't take much. He sips as quickly as he can, grateful for the warmth of the stuff, grateful for having been _made_ to do what he needs to do right now. It's funny, he can't even remember the last time the two of them got really drunk together. It's been years. House is already well on his way, drinking more and then watching the shifting, sparkling liquid move inside the glass.

"You can guess," he says, very quietly, "what he made Chris do. And I stood there like a dumbass, because I wanted to stop him and I couldn't."

"You were ... just a kid," Wilson says, and raises his glass again, curving his fingers around the smooth crystal. The tendrils of whiskey wind gently through his veins, around his mind, offering a little protection. The scotch tastes of peat and woodsmoke, of rain-soaked earth under a leaden sky. He thinks he would have broken down if House had told him all this while they were dead sober. He's been fighting against it anyway, making himself focus on the room, on the glass, on House. All the things that are here, now, real.

There's a frightened, guarded, _terrible_ expression in House's eyes, though, and all at once Wilson knows. "You—oh, God. There's more, isn't there. You don't have to tell me if—"

"Yeah. I do. Might as well get it over with. Drink."

No more encouragement is needed.

Wilson takes a minute to finish what he's got, and then holds out the glass. House refills it, aligning the bottle with a careful effort that gives away the beginnings of intoxication. They sit in silence for a while, waiting for the alcohol to warm them, to erode away the barriers they've built. Wilson's hands are awkward, slightly numb as he tapes the splint and bandages back in place across his nose. He figures he should do it now, before he's too far gone to do it at all.

"When he was ... _done_ ," House says, "he dragged Chris over to where I was. Just grabbed him around the waist, brick in the same hand, and dragged him like a toy. It felt like it does when you're in a car crash. Where you see it happening and you're paralyzed. You think it can't be real."

"And then the car flips over," murmurs Wilson.

"Yeah. He ... Martin ... pulled down my pants. That's —" he pauses to pour another shot, taking ever more care not to spill it. The bottle that was half-empty to start with is now less than a quarter full. "— I tried to run. Backward. God, I was an idiot. Tripped, fell flat on my back."

Wilson wants to say _You must have been terrified_ or _It wasn't your fault_ or even _You don't have to tell me this_ , but none of those things would be helpful. One of them wouldn't even be true. So he sits there and waits and lets the soft leather sofa and the whiskey remind him that it's over with now.

"I tried to get up, but he put his foot on my chest. He said — said it was my turn."

"House," Wilson breathes, and his guts ache, his chest aches, with the realization of where this has to be going. "Oh God. He ... he made your _friend_..."

"I could never even tell him I was _sorry_ ," House rasps. "Chris. He ran whenever he saw me, after that, and if he didn't run, I would've. 'Cause I could've said, what? 'Gee, Chris, didn't mean to help my buddy _rape_ you.'"  House looks like he might vomit or cry or both. "I don't ... I had no excuse. Martin took his foot off me, and I just laid there, you know why? 'Cause he _looked_ at me. He had Chris, and he had the brick. He just ... looked at me and I ... _let_ it happen."

"If you hadn't?"

"Martin was gonna kill him," House replies, without any hesitation. "But he never said that and I can't know it. I don't _know_."

"Yeah, you do."

"I could've tried."

"House. I've _seen_ that look."

Somewhere outside, a siren is sounding, moving through the streets. It's an ambulance; Wilson knows its pitch. Another life in the balance, another person's car crash or heart attack or brutal, unrelenting assault.

"C'mon," says House. "Gotta get into bed. 'Fore I can't." He stretches out his arm, wiggles his fingers in Wilson's general direction.

"Ohhh, this's gonna be ... interesting," says Wilson, and in spite of all the horror of what he's just learned, he starts to chuckle as he hears himself lisp out the words. The whiskey's really hitting him now, suddenly and hard. God, but he's grateful for that. He rises from the sofa with great caution, not quite prepared for the speed at which the world seems to move.

"Pffft. This'll be easy," says House, with a lopsided smile. "One hand, cane. Other hand, _Jimmy_."

Their interlaced lurching is funnier than Wilson expected, so funny that they keep having to stop and wait for the fits of laughter to ease up. The more they move, the more sloshed Wilson gets. They're all the way to House's room before Wilson makes what he thinks is a very astute observation.

"Dropped your cane," he says, looking back and seeing it lying forlorn, just a few feet away from the sofa. He'd somehow not noticed it before, that House had been using him as his sole source of support.

"Yup. Annoyed me." House keeps moving forward, toward the beckoning mattress.

"Oh. S'my job, isn't it?"

"And you're _soooo_ overqualified." He lets go of Wilson, who's almost tipped over by the sudden release of House's weight. They're snorting with laughter again as Wilson turns to leave.

Except he can't leave, because House has grabbed a handful of his shirt, and is pulling him backward.

"Story time," says House, still drunk and yet, suddenly, completely serious, "isn't over. Sit."

 

* * *

Slowly, carefully, Wilson stretches out his left leg — the one House doesn't have trapped under his own — to try and ease the stiffness in his body. He's on his back in House's bed, and House has him wrapped up in a death grip, worthy of some huge South American snake.

Wilson's not sure how this happened. He recalls being very tired and quite drunk, and drifting off to sleep here, with plenty of space between House and himself. Now House's head — which feels like a damn lead weight — is pillowed on Wilson's right shoulder, cutting off the circulation so that his whole right arm is numb. House's arm is wound tightly around Wilson's torso, making his ribs, and all those deep bruises, send out pangs of protest.

Wilson doesn't want to wake House, but he might have to. 

Even as Wilson thinks about that, House stirs, shifting his weight and relieving a little of Wilson's discomfort. Pins and needles begin to spread through Wilson's arm as the blood flow is restored.

House seems oblivious to that.

"Wilson," he mumbles.

"Right here," Wilson replies, but it's hard to tell if House is really hearing him. House's flimsy blinds don't block out the light from the street, so Wilson can see him quite clearly. His eyes are screwed shut, like a little kid who doesn't want to see whatever's lurking in the shadows. 

"'m sorry," he says, tucking his head inward so that the quiet, low words almost vanish into the folds of Wilson's shirt. 

Wilson turns his head carefully, unsure of what he's just heard. He can still smell whiskey on House's breath.

"What?"

House tightens his grip, buries his head a little deeper in Wilson's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "God I'm sorry." House makes a terrible, _broken_ sound, deep in his chest, and his hand curls inward at Wilson's side, holding onto Wilson's shirt.

"I _loved_ him," House says, and Wilson's not about to ask who. Martin, Chris, or Wilson himself, what does it matter? He won't make House say it. There are too many demons in the dark already.

Wilson's left arm is free, so he brings it up and around House's shoulders, pulling him in. "I know," Wilson says firmly, resting his chin across the top of House's head. "It's okay."

"I never _meant_ to. For that to happen. Any of it."

"I know," Wilson says again, not that House is really listening. His head moves away from Wilson's shoulder and inward, pressing into Wilson's chest.

"I could never tell him. I'm so sorry."

He listens as House repeats it, years' worth of it, decades' worth. Wilson's shirt is wet and his ribs are aching, and if sometimes House says _Wilson_ and sometimes he says _Chris_ , well, that's okay. It's about damn time.

He just holds House closer; he won't try to fix this and he won't let go.

That's what brothers, _real_ brothers, are supposed to do.

He wonders whether House will remember any of this in the morning. Wilson doesn't figure he'll ever know for certain. 

He's sure as hell not going to ask.

 

* * *

It's the scents that wake House. He's fully dressed, save for his shoes and his belt; his head hurts; his leg hurts; his mouth feels like it's lined with nasty, greasy felt. He ought to be hating life, the universe, and everything right now, but he isn't, because Wilson's making breakfast.

There are soft sounds from the kitchen, the shuffle and scrape of spatulas and pans. House shuts his eyes and breathes in, taking an instant inventory: Eggs. Bacon, because Wilson's parents aren't here and they'll never have to know. Some sort of fruit; something golden and warm and wheat-based, either pancakes or waffles. And above it all, the enticing perfume of fresh coffee.

He needs his pills first and to get out of bed second. His mouth is so sticky and dry. This won't be fun, he thinks, and then he notices the cool glass of water on the nightstand. Two pills keep each other company near the base of the glass. His cane, which he recalls having ditched the night before, leans patiently just a few inches away.

For once, he really wants that water. He's so thirsty. He stays put, drinks it all, waits for the pain to start easing off. He'd been drunk enough to make himself tell Wilson pretty much everything, but not so drunk that he doesn't remember. He'd told about the end of it, when Martin took that brick and smashed Chris's wrist into the ground and he'd heard the scream and the snapping of bones. He'd told about Chris running away. About Martin's abrupt change, the coldness that came off him in waves. The way Martin had stalked off without a word, leaving him lying there on his back in the dirt.

House pulls himself slowly upright, and his head throbs. This routine should be blessedly mindless: Cane. Hobble. Pee; wash hands, splash water on face. Rinse off blood; no, that was the thing he'd told Wilson last night. The way there'd been blood all over him when it was through. How he'd finally gotten up and walked straight into the creek, clothes and all. He'd walked until he was in over his head, and then he'd tried to forget how to swim.

"Obviously," he'd told Wilson, "didn't work. Couldn't make myself forget; didn't drown."

He's still trying not to think of that as he stumps blearily into the kitchen, into the embrace of all those inviting aromas. Wilson's loading up their plates, but he pauses long enough to pour coffee into a big black mug and hand it over. His left hand is back in its bright blue splint, the thing Wilson's supposed to wear every night but which, last night, got forgotten.

House watches him over the rim of the cup, suddenly suspicious about the reasons for this feast. Wilson hasn't cooked like this in ages. The coffee is perfectly hot. The waffles — waffles! — are almost obscene, piled high with freshly sliced peaches and whipped cream.

If this is pity — if this is because House turned into a drunken pile of goo and used Wilson's t-shirt for a Kleenex — House will throw all this food in the garbage. He'll go to McDonald's rather than take something that's being offered because _poor little Greg_ had a lousy childhood.

Wilson can only carry one plate at a time now; his left hand's still too unsteady. "I'll cook," says Wilson, calmly, "but I'm not waitressing. You don't tip well." He takes his own plate of food and brushes past House on his way to the sofa, leaving House to manage cup and plate on his own. 

House therefore does not hesitate to sit beside him and begin wolfing down breakfast. He's not nearly hung over enough to not want to eat. Wilson seems amused by that. But there is something _else_ , the same something else that was in his expression the night before, after House said he'd wanted to drown. Wilson hadn't said that it was terrible, hadn't made any noises of horror or sadness or disbelief.

"How'd you cope with it," he'd asked, so softly. "Swimmin' when you didn't want to. Not bein' able to stop it. 'Cause ... 'cause your body just ... _did_."

He'd known immediately what it was Wilson meant, what he was asking about. The one part he'd left entirely out of the tale, and Wilson was telling it for him.

"You think I coped? Hated myself. Still hate myself. Can't help that either."

"Oh," said Wilson, and that had been the end of that conversation. He remembers that they sat there a while, saying nothing. Remembers stretching out on the bed and not even bothering to take off his jeans. Remembers waking up a while later and — everything.

He sees the question still in Wilson's eyes this morning, while they're demolishing their breakfast and not talking about it. _How'd you cope, House?_ He didn't; he never did, and if he had then maybe Wilson wouldn't be here with one good hand and a splinted nose.

_If you ever learn to_ **cope** with this, Jimmy, be sure to tell me how.  
   


 


	93. Aftershocks 61.1: Win, Lose, or Draw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You play the hand you're dealt.

**Win, Lose, or Draw**  


Wilson's office has the stale air of unused space. It feels _abandoned_ (which is exactly what it was) — bits of paper lying where House had reshuffled them, a thin sheen of dust covering knicknacks and shelves. While Wilson was lying downstairs, during those first days, House had spent a lot of time here, snooping and rearranging and downloading porn on Wilson's computer, trying to irritate the ghost-of-Wilson that always seemed to inhabit the office.

It seems he succeeded; even the ghost is gone and the office feels ... empty. There's not even the constant, residual hospital smell of cleanser and antiseptic—after he'd yelled at the first few janitors who'd inadvertently disturbed him in his restless quest ( _for what?_ ) they had simply stopped coming, quietly leaving Wilson's office off their cleaning schedule. He supposes they'll return before Wilson does, but he doesn't really care.

Dropping his backpack to the floor, House flicks on the computer and settles himself at the desk, then opens Wilson's email. Apparently news of Wilson's pending return to work has made the rounds; there are two dozen 'welcome back' messages waiting. Wilson has been checking his email from home, but these are all new today.

House checks the time and swears under his breath.

He arrives at the department chairs' meeting five minutes later (a half-hour late if he actually _went_ to these things) and interrupts Kern's report on the search for a new head of Endocrinology. Cuddy says, "Dr. House, how good of you—"

"Let me just make clear," House announces without bothering to sit down, "if anyone, anywhere in this hospital even _thinks_ of throwing a surprise party for Wilson, I will _kill_ them. Inflict grave bodily injury on them and their little dogs, too."

"Dr. House, we've already discussed the conditions of Dr. Wilson's return," Cuddy says sternly.

" _Not_ a good idea to surprise a guy with PTSD. But then, you're all medical professionals; you know that," House continues, raising his voice to talk over Cuddy. He glares at the department heads seated around the table. "Keep a leash on your people," he growls. "I'm inclined to take it out on you, too."

Birdsong splutters, "House, you can't just waltz—"

"Try me," House says, low and sharp and venomous. He turns on his good heel and stomps out.

 

* * *

House twirls his keys on his middle finger while waiting for the elevator. Wilson will have very little patience with it, but he's going to have a House-shaped shadow for a while. House won't be able to help himself, even though he knows it won't do much good.

Martin would probably walk through him like the shadow he is, but at least he wouldn't find out about it over the goddamned _phone_.

He's in his own office, halfway to his desk chair, when the six journals open on his desk remind him why he was in Wilson's office in the first place. He needs the journal he left somewhere in Wilson's office to complete the picture, so he turns and heads out again.

* * *

House digs through the piles of papers again — tiny puffs of dust fly up and he sneezes, once, twice. When he finally finds the journal he brushes the page edges free of fuzz and stuffs it into his backpack, which he had forgotten here earlier. He swivels the chair and stands up, scanning the desk top one last time.

Later, he'll never be sure what compelled him to slide open Wilson's top desk drawer.

There's a rattlesnake in there, in the form of a long, plain white envelope. A business envelope, with no stamp or return address, and with _House's_ name on it, in a clear, strong hand that he recognizes immediately.

"Oh, you fucking bastard," he mutters. "You goddamn fucking _bastard."_

__He takes an instinctive step back — his heart is in his throat and he can't seem to get enough breath. It's the bump on his shoulder in the grocery store, the O.R. schedule in his jacket pocket, the newspaper through the mail slot.

It's that black cigarette on the road.

House looks around the office, scanning every inch, every corner. _Nothing_ , he tells himself. _He's gone, it's nothing, it's just his calling card, he always leaves a fucking calling card._

He realizes he's holding his cane across his body, his grip painfully tight, and lowers it slowly. He wills his heart to a calmer, more deliberate rate, and sits down again, easing himself into the chair as if it might sprout vicious thorns at any moment.

When he reaches at last for the envelope, his hand isn't shaking at all.

There's one piece of paper in it — a $2 betting slip for Indian Dancer to win, dated the day this all started. The day Wilson had a gun shoved in his back, and was taken for a long ride to a very dark place.

House stares at the slip for a long time as he absently sticks the envelope in his bag. Apart from the janitorial staff, Cuddy, and himself, nobody's been in Wilson's office since that day. Nobody would've opened the drawer, noticed the envelope, or anyone who might have put it there. He turns the paper over; there's writing on the back, small, precise strokes.

_Greg—Many thanks to you and Dr. Wilson for your most gracious entertainment. I deeply regret not being able to meet face-to-face this time, but business calls. See you at our next reunion — M._

"Son of a bitch," House murmurs. He can see it now — Wilson coming back to work, opening the desk drawer. Discovering the envelope. The frown of curiosity forming on his face, puzzling at the unfamiliar handwriting. He would've opened it himself or brought it to House — either way the damage would have been done, and everything, all the tiny steps towards healing they'd both taken, would have flown out the window. House glances outside.

Or taken a flying leap off the balcony.

This is Martin's good-bye, his closing of this particular circle.

House startles as the door knob rattles and the door opens. His breath is stuck in his throat for a few very long seconds until he recognizes the person coming in the room.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he bellows as he hastily hides the paper in his pocket.

“It’s my office!” Wilson yells back, perturbed. He steps closer and makes a shooing motion. “Out of my chair. I’ve got a phone consult in five minutes, and I have to re-read the file.”

“You’re not supposed to be here until next week. Why aren’t you doing the consult from home?”

“Well, _Mom_ ,” Wilson says, rolling his eyes, “I had to come by to get the file from Patel—” 

“You knew I was here; I would’ve gotten it for you.” 

“—and decided to make the call from my office in case I need reference materials from my drawer or computer. Seriously, get out of my chair.”

Wilson’s hands have settled on his hips, and House feels a smirk coming on. This is so familiar, so much the way it was. Then he blinks and the lingering bruises on Wilson’s face from the rhinoplasty pop into sharp relief. Wilson’s nose is a fraction shorter; Wilson’s left hand doesn’t sit at the same angle on his hip that it did. He stands slightly canted, leaning just an ace off-center as the long muscles of his back compensate to miminize pain elsewhere.

Not that anyone would notice.  


“You need your rest,” House grumbles. “I’ll do the consult for you.”

“Oh.” Wilson’s head bows. “Now that you mention it, I am feeling a little peaked. Maybe you should,” he says quietly, and drops the file in front of House.

“The patient is a fifth-grader who’s returned to school after cancer treatment, including amputation of two of his fingers. The family and their doctors need help redesigning the boy’s IEP —” At House's raised eyebrow, Wilson stops and clarifies, “Individualized Education Program. With the way it's currently written, they've had trouble getting him the full range of services he needs to get re-integrated into his classroom. The key is to translate our recommendations into language compatible with the school district’s administrative directives, so that the services are approved and provided.” 

House looks up at Wilson, whose gaze is strong and steady. “And be prepared,” Wilson continues, “because the boy's mother is very emotional about all of this.”

“Emotional?”

“Cries at the drop of a hat.”

House looks down at the file, at the phone, and then back up at Wilson. “Maybe you ought to handle this one.”

“You’re probably right.” Wilson nods. “ _Now_ , get out of my chair.”

After grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, House allows himself to be shooed out. Wilson, mind already focused on the call ahead, doesn’t bat an eye when House goes to the balcony instead of the hall.

There's a coolness to the air, the kind of cool that’ll stick around. The dry heat of summer has broken and it feels like it might rain.

After a glimpse back at Wilson — animated and warm — House pulls the slip of paper from his pocket and rubs it between his fingers.

_See you at our next reunion._

"No," House says quietly. "Not if I see you first."

He fishes the lighter from his pocket and flicks the tiny sparking wheel with one callused thumb. The yellow flame leaps up; he touches it to one corner of the betting slip. It catches immediately, the paper curling and blackening as the char line creeps higher.

House knows it's not over. It will never truly be over; somewhere it's all still happening, in a sunlit meadow, in a darkened barn, it goes on. Dwelling on it won't do a damn thing, though. They've got a condo to look at tomorrow, some place close by that Wilson's been raving about. A pre-war building with high ceilings and huge arched doorways. Room for all the important stuff — Wilson's ridiculous kitchen gadgets, House's books, a new 60-inch flat-panel TV.

A piano.

He sets the burning slip on the balcony wall; in just a moment it's reduced to feathery grey ashes that are swept away by the freshening wind.

 

~~~~The End~~~~  



End file.
